Birthright
by ruth baulding
Summary: A Togorian warlord engages in the pursuit of wisdom; Obi Wan proves uncooperative; Anakin and Jedi master Even Piell must hurry to intervene. Expansion of a scene from In Memoriam, by special request.
1. Chapter 1

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Gherru Rhak'an had strange powers.

He was like no other Togorian warlord of his line, and like no other in history. Already, several epic _ker-tarwei_ had been composed about his ascendancy to absolute power in the clan branch, about his daring exploits of conquest in space protected by the feeble Republic. His armor was dented with the blows of many enemies, all of whom had gasped their last beneath his upraised foot. He had drunk the lifeblood of their leaders, in the traditional ceremony, thus taking their _prama _ unto himself and bringing it under his own dominion. Those who had challenged his right to lead were also slain – properly, in an honor duel, and their heads impaled on staves outside the royal stronghold, as visible credentials to his great destiny. His black head-fur was braided no less than five times, once for each of the knives he had suffered to pierce his flesh during his coming-of-age ceremony; he carried the weapons with him still, as marks of honor.

But if these high and ancient symbols and testaments to his superiority were not enough to convince the foolish skeptic, there was still this fact: he had strange powers. His defeat of Meerk'an Kua was legendary: how, after a pitched battle with vibroaxes, he had lifted the bloodied body of his foe off the floor and crushed his windpipe – without once touching him. And how he had foreseen the mutinous plans of his regent and had the fomenting palace rebellion leaders executed in their chambers before they could muster together to carry out their treasonous plans. How the Ancestors sent him weird dreams in which things of yesterday and things of tomorrow sometimes shone clear as things of today. How he had ingested poison and purged it from his body without the aid of a _solo-tuma_ priest, the power of his will and his inborn sorceries accomplishing what the strongest herbs and remedies could not. His enemies feared him; his court stood in awe of his inexplicable gifts.

And yet Gherru Rhak'an was not satisfied. He craved more.

At night, sometimes, when the Ancestors sent him a dream of the past or the future, and he lay stretched out on his sleep-couch, naked beneath the gaze of the stars peeping through the slatted stone ceiling of his chamber, his fur still damp with the fearful sweat and stink of such visions, he longed for more. Each dream, each taste of power, only fanned the latent embers of desire. He knew that when such visions appeared, when such miracles proceeded from his hands, he had been granted a brief taste of _prama _ itself, the sacred fabric of the universe, the essence of life. At such times he was Gherru no more, not even a scion of the mighty Rhak'an tribe – but something vastly more, a drop in a infinite ocean of power. He was the universe itself.

If he could find a way to master his gifts…to make them his servants, rather than he theirs…then his name would echo from the very firmament. Not only Togoria and the slavish cowards who occupied its neighboring systems, but the entire Galaxy, the arrogant Republic that claimed so much of it for itself, the rulers and lords of every other world, would bow before him. But to tame _prama…_ sometimes he wondered if any other living being had ever dreamed of such hubris, of such frenzied rebellion against mortality. He did not care. It was his destiny.

And so he had searched, and he had consulted even strange ways, paths of knowledge outside the Togorian clan hierarchies. He had found scholars and historians, court magicians and soothsayers, bards and adepts of weird cults. And all these seemed to agree upon one thing: there _were_ those who knew the ways of _prama, _ wizards who possessed the same gifts as Gherru Rhak'an, but who had mastered them, brought them under submission and used them for their own obscure purposes. Mentions of such individuals were tantalizing; the discovery that there was an ancient order of such sorcerers, bound together by solemn vows, was galvanizing; the further rumor that these powerful magicians only taught their occult ways to their own chosen children was positively infuriating.

Gherru's people were pirates; he was used to taking what he could not have by other means. And so, in the fourteenth year of his reign, when internal opposition to his leadership had been definitively crushed, he set himself a new goal. He would find one of these sorcerers and make him yield over his treasury of knowledge. His followers might be content with plunder comprised of minerals, goods, technology, slaves- either droids or organics – but Rhak'an was after a vastly superior prize.

He was looking for a Jedi.

* * *

><p>Anakin Skywalker had strange powers. That's what they said back on Tatooine, in the superstitious enclaves of the slave quarters, in the gossip-mongerers' stalls at the marketplace. He was <em>different. <em>He could see things before they happened, he could do things no other human was able to do – like podracing. Even his mother sometimes looked at him wistfully, an almost awed expression shadowing her cheerful, lined features, as though she were frightened that his weird gifts would somehow bind him to an unwelcome destiny.

That was then. Now, the things that made him so different on Tatooine were taken for granted by most the people in his life: by his peers, by his superiors, and most particularly by his teacher, the individual assigned to be his sole mentor and guide for the next…well, for a really long time. Until Anakin was grown up, as he understood the arrangement. It was a comfort not to be thought strange and frightening because he could sense things before they happened. Anakin might have flashes of foresight; but he knew that Obi Wan Kenobi was occasionally seized by premonitory visions that would make a nightmare seem like a pleasant flight of fancy. Anakin might have unusual reflexes; but Obi Wan could knock _blaster bolts_ off course in mid-air with a single sweep of a lightsaber blade. Anakin was learning how to lift heavy objects in the air without touching them; Obi Wan had been known to hurl opponents across rooms and into walls with a flick of his wrist. In other words, from the perspective of the Jedi Order, weird was normal. And normal was weird. Possessions, hobbies, passions…mothers…lots of things taken for granted by most the galaxy's denizens were strictly off limits to Jedi. Anakin's new life was a study in bizarre reversals and paradoxes: he was no longer a slave but now he had a master; he had to study incredibly hard so he could learn to trust his instincts; he had to excel in martial combat so he could be a guardian of peace; he had to renounce everything he loved or might love because he needed to have compassion; and he had to give his whole life away to the service of others because he had been given an inalienable gift.

Sometimes it was a bit much to digest.

"Master?"

Especially when there was little else to think about.

"Master?"

He probably shouldn't interrupt Obi Wan's meditation, but just the other day he had endured a long lecture on the topic _there is no probably, only should or should not,_ so he ignored the nagging suspicion and persevered.

"Um…..master?"

With a long-suffering and inaudible sigh, Obi Wan finally opened his eyes and studied the gangly boy standing before him. "What is it, Anakin?"

Anakin shifted a bit awkwardly, suddenly embarrassed by the question that had seemed so pressing and monumental only a moment earlier. Still kneeling on the hard deck of the ship's cabin, Obi Wan patiently waited for him to spit it out. "Uh…I was just wondering something."

"Yes, I gathered that much." Obi Wan's eyebrows drifted upward sarcastically.

Anakin squirmed. "I shouldn't have interrupted you," he clumsily apologized.

"You interrupted me to tell me that?" his teacher inquired, brows lifting another ironic centimeter, and clipped tones taking on a distinct growl of exasperation.

Not fair. Anakin felt his lower lip tighten into a pout, despite very strict warnings not to indulge this habit, and he crossed his arms defensively. "I was just wondering," he blurted out, "What would have happened – I mean, what happens – what if somebody can, you know, feel the Force, but he doesn't become a Jedi? Does that ever happen?"

Obi Wan's annoyance melted away. He stood gracefully , and motioned for Anakin to sit beside him on the narrow bunk set into the bulkhead. "I'm sorry, Anakin. I forget sometimes….there are so many things we learn young, in the Temple. I should have discussed this with you before. What brought this to mind?"

The boy shrugged. "I was just thinking."

A corner of the older Jedi's mouth twitched. "Dangerous habit, Padawan mine. To answer your question: yes, that happens. More often than it should." He studied his hands, clasped lightly between his knees. "To be born with the gift but deprived of proper training – that is a tragedy. It can be a path to the Dark Side."

Anakin's feet almost touched the floor, but he could still swing them a little. He gnawed on his lip. "So…I was almost a tragedy?"

Obi Wan turned his head to the side, so their eyes could meet fully. "Anakin. Every one of us is a almost a tragedy, from a certain point of view. You mustn't allow yourself to dwell on such thoughts."

"Oh. I mean, yes master." Anakin swallowed, a little of the tension around his chest easing. Obi Wan was _almost_ a tragedy, too. From a certain point of view. He touched the deck with his booted toes, to stop himself from swinging his legs like a child. "I was also wondering –"

But the rest of his inquiry was violently aborted by a jarring impact, and a dizzying whirl of motion as the entire ship seemed to slew sideways, throwing them across the small cabin into the opposite wall. If Obi Wan hadn't grabbed him in midair and miraculously turned a neat somersault before landing on the tilting deck by the door, Anakin would have smacked his head against the bulkheads.

The drives whined, a shuddering, grinding noise reverbrating through the cruiser's hull, a sickening buck and lurch following the initial jolt.

"Hey! You can't crash in hyperspace!" Anakin yelped.

Obi Wan straightened, although the artifical gravity hadn't caught up with the ship's rolling motion and the room still felt skewed. "That was a gravity mine," he barked. "Quickly."

And the next thing Anakin knew, he was pelting down the corridor at Obi Wan's heels, running flat out toward the cruiser's bridge. Danger rang loud and clear in his mind, louder than the emergency claxons blaring in every direction, louder than his frantic thoughts. A gravity mine meant only one thing: imminent attack, probably by space pirates.

A flare of panic clawed in his belly, but he quashed it. The Force was with them….and besides, his master could handle _anything. _Any pirates who attacked _this_ ship were just looking for trouble.

And they were about to find it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Gherru Rhak'an peered at the sensor readout, and broke into a fierce, rumbling roar of delight. "A Republic diplomatic cruiser!" he announced to the gathered boarding party. "The gods are with us!"

"The Republics don't carry treasure on such ships," Tolth'ar, his second in command, grumbled, his lips drawing back over uneven teeth. "And they are well-guarded. The red ensign is a mark of honor – their _arista_ travel in such vessels. They may have elite warriors with them….or the wizard monks."

"Jedi," Rhak'an affirmed, running his tongue over his own teeth. His fur rippled and he flexed his muscles beneath the plated armor. "If we are fortunate, Tolth'ar."

He swept an arm upward in the traditional salute. "We will puncture their hull. Prepare the boarding prongs." His selected company of veteran pillagers crammed into the low-roofed space of the attack pod, a mere bubble of durasteel surmounted by a five-fold appendage, a huge spear designed to rip through energy shields and durasteel alike, tearing a pressurized point of entry into an enemy vessel. They crouched down in the close space, the scent of battle rising off their skin and fur together. It tickled Rhak'an's wide flared nostrils, slid rasping over the back of his throat. He ran one clawed finger down the edge of his vibro-axe, drawing blood, and then squeezed a few droplets onto the weapon's handle and thin blade, whetting its appetite. The others followed suit.

At his command, the attack pod was hurled out of its nacelle, spinning across the short distance between his warship and the crippled Republic cruiser. The sharp forward prongs ripped through the enemy's hull with an ear-splitting crunch of metal and circuitry. Rhak'ans warriors clashed their weapons against their breastplates and howled out the _urk'an yazza,_ the curse upon one's foes, and pressed forward, gathering behind the hatch as the prongs slowly widened, tearing the hole wide enough to admit them into the new ship's interior.

* * *

><p>The captain was shouting orders, and most the bridge crew were on their feet, vainly trying to reestablish the hyperdrive.<p>

"Togorian warship at point nine," one of the officers barked out, his voice edged with panic. "It's a trap."

Anakin skidded to halt at Obi Wan's heels as they entered the chaotic upper deck. The ship lurched again, as though under the force of a second impact.

"Boarding pod just breached the salon pod," the officer announced, his tension twisting the Force into a taut thread. The salon pod was situated directly below the bridge.

"Where are the delegates?" Obi Wan demanded, one hand reaching for Anakin's shoulder to steady him as the cruiser slid precariously to the side, its stabilizers laboring under the gravity mine's insidious pull.

"In their staterooms, " the captain replied. "Emergency procedure. We have weapons, Master Jedi. We can resist a boarding party."

Anakin looked up eagerly at his teacher's face. A stand-off against bloodthirsty space pirates! It was a boy's dream come true, the very essence of heroic action. And it was about to happen right here!

But Obi Wan didn't look so enthusiastic. "No," he decided. "Listen to me. Anakin, you must stay here. Locate the gravity mine- use the external sensors. Blast it with the turbo lasers, and then fly out of here on sublights."

"The Togorians will blow us to smithereens!" the captain objected.

"Not with their own still on board," the Jedi knight corrected him. "Togorians always send their Captain at the head of a raid. They won't risk destroying him to catch us."

"But the tractor!" Anakin piped up. "Won't the attack pod be tethered to the main ship? If we pull away, it'll rip loose and we'll have a massive hull breach."

"And what about the pirates?" the first mate protested.

"I'll deal with them," Obi Wan said, his face drawn into tight lines. "Anakin." He looked down at the small boy beside him. "Do you understand? Do exactly as I say, and do not hesitate, no matter what happens. The lives of everyone on this ship depend on you."

Find the gravity mine. Blast it. Fly away. "Got it!" He nodded his head fiercely, sending his very short learner's braid bobbing to one side. "I can do it, master. I won't let you down."

"I know." A brief pressure on his shoulder, and Obi Wan was gone, dashing out the bridge doors again, on his way to the salon pod.

Anakin's heart skipped a beat. Could his master really hold off an entire Togorian boarding party single handedly?

Of course he could. "Let me see the scanners," he ordered the captain. The man looked slightly taken aback at being issued commands by a child, but he wisely held his tongue and gestured to the consoles.

Anakin gathered the Force around him. He would do what his master said- everyone was counting on him.

* * *

><p>The prongs opened to their full width with a last rending screech of metal, and Rhak'an's elite raiding squad poured through the gap one after another, their heavily booted feet thumping on the hard deck. They were in some kind of meeting room, or perhaps dining hall. A massive table occupied the center of the cabin, which was dimly lit. Various control panels and other mysterious appointments covered the bulkheads. There was only one hatchway exiting this chamber, and that was directly ahead. They had aimed for the bridge, assuming it would be this bulbous forward capsule, but Rhak'an quickly divined that they had missed their mark and that the ship's crew and control center must be directly overhead.<p>

No matter. They would storm through the ship and make short work of any occupants. Then they would strip it of valuables and leave its corpse to rot in space, a grisly testament to Togorian power and supremacy. "Forward!" he commanded, pointing his axe at the thin sheet of durasteel sealing them off from the rest of their prize.

But they had not taken more than two steps toward the door when it opened of its own accord, sliding into a recessed pocket with a gentle hiss of pressure pistons. Some of his warriors howled in rage and delight.

There, outlined in the narrow frame, was a single Republic foe. They had sent only _one_ to protect themselves against the raid….but in Rhak'an's mind, fate could not have blessed them more highly. For this one small figure was unmistakably Jedi. It was a young pup, he decided – the thin scruff of red-gold along its jaw and on it chin gave it the appearance of a wild kubruc in its first year, with the antlers still growing in- but he could feel _prama_ rolling off this one like the waves of heat off sun-beaten sand. It stood blocking their exit, feet spread in a casual stance, brown cloak draping to the floor. Something gleamed in its right hand.

"Jedi!" he greeted this new apparition. "Stand aside!"

True to form, the sorcerer-whelp did not budge. Instead, the silver weapon hilt in its hand came up into a guard position, and a line of spitting blue lightning shot out of one end. The blade hummed menacingly in the cold air, much like the battle growls sounding deep in Rhak'an's warriors throats.

The human's strange blue-white eyes narrowed, and Rhak'an felt the sudden electrical fire spreading, invisibly, in the _prama_ all around them. His very bones ached with it, and saliva washed through his mouth in a bitter flood. His hair stood on end. Oh, this was a powerful one. He was fortunate indeed.

"_Nega rushi_," he barked out at his companions. They would take this one alive, as a captive, if possible. He raised a fist, and his warriors charged.

There was a flash of fire in the _prama, _ a wind like the gale off a seacliff, and the leading three were hurled backward, two crashing heavily into the walls behind, one sliding across the polished table and thudding to the decks on the opposite side. The blue blade flashed, screaming a war cry in discordant tones as it swept around and down, and Thor'ka's arm stump skittered across the deck, red-hot smoldering edges not even bleeding. Thor'ka howled in rage and leapt for the Jedi's throat- but he was not fast enough. The door slammed shut as the Jedi stepped into the small chamber, ducking beneath the assault and whirling to face the concerted attack of Rhak'an and his best raiders.

The warlord laughed in delight and swung his axe, giddy with the wild crackling energy of the _prama, _ drunk on adrenaline and battle lust. The young Jedi swerved away from the blow, grinned as the vibroblade smashed the polished table in half, and then brought its saber down to sever the weapon's deadly curving blade from the haft. Rhak'an roared and unsheathed his ceremonial knives, while two others rushed the Jedi from behind.

Singed armor, burned flesh, hideous snarls of pain: the _prama _ churned like a sky heavy with thunder. The blue blade spun and flashed, moaning with delight at the carnage. Rhak'an's blood thrilled with it. Rhak'an signalled to Hu'Mass and Ruggha, and the brothers leapt forward in a conjoined attack upon the deadly human warrior. Ruggha fell beneath the blue blade, his lips frozen in a snarl of agony as his armor was pierced through. Hu'Mass did not hesitate; while the glowing saber blade was still impaled in his brother's chest, he struck the Jedi across the face with the butt end of his stave. The Jedi fell backward, rolling over one shoulder, dodging a second blow. Hu'Mass leapt in, closing with his foe hand to hand. Tolth'ar joined the fight, and soon enough they had the Jedi pinned beneath them, the hilt of the energy blade still clutched dangerously in the Jedi's hand. Hu'Mass sank a gauntleted fist into the Jedi's ribs, while Tolth'ar wrenched an arm out of its socket. The Jedi let loose a savage cry, perhaps a human noise of pain.

Rhak'an saw his opening, and threw his ceremonial shiv with great care.

It sank into the Jedi's left side, gorgeous red blossoming on the white tunics, but not before the saber blade spat into life again, sweeping with ferocious precision through both Togorians. Tolth'ar' collapsed in a roar of agony, his legs sheared off at the knees, while Hu'Mass' head rolled over the shattered tabletop and landed at Rhak'an's feet.

The Jedi staggered onto one knee, rolled away from the stinking corpses, and retreated under the table.

Rhak'an kicked aside the slain body of Hu'Mass and gripped the massive edge, lifted it. The table tipped, broke, and was flung aside. But the Jedi was not there. It was, impossibly, against the far wall, hand slamming against some controls set into a recessed nook.

Rhak'an threw another knife, but this one missed as the Jedi slewed to one side. The entire chamber shuddered, and the deck tilted. There was a hissing of pressure relases, and then the lurching sensation of a pod drifting in space.

The remaining Togorians cursed and looked to Rhak'an for guidance. He scowled, realizing that they had been tricked. This chamber was separate from the main body of the ship; and the Jedi had just launched it, breaking them clean away from the cruiser above. He shouted out his rage at the subterfuge, the _prama_ rippling red-hot with his anger.

The Jedi seemed to feel it. The blue blade swept up again, even though the young warrior was panting and gripping the ledge behind it for support. The handle of Rhak'an's shiv still protruded from its flank, damp crimson seeping over its belly and down its leg. The human had very white, small teeth and its pale skin was coated in water droplets rather than the white foam of perspiration.

There was a roar of engines as the Republic cruiser sped away, escaping the gravity mine and leaving Rhak'an and his raiding party stranded here with no plunder except the desperate Jedi sorcerer. The Togorians paused, gnashing their teeth and hissing wrathful breaths through slatted nostrils. Severed limbs and bodies covered the decks.

The Jedi flourished its blade, smiling at Rhak'an with strange blue-white eyes glittering. It was an expression meaningless to Rhak'an's followers, but the warlord felt its import in the _prama:_ mocking satisfaction. The Jedi had triumphed and humiliated him.

He held his last warriors off with an upraised hand. The Jedi's breath began to rasp, and then the young buck crumpled forward, knees hitting the deck and weapon clattering from limp fingers. Even so, the proud Jedi managed to look up at Rhak'an one more time, with that same victorious light in its strange human face, before completely collapsing.

Rhak'an growled with pleasure. The raid had not been completely in vain.

He now had what he was looking for.


	3. Chapter 3

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Anakin released a loud whoop of victory, one echoed by some of the younger crew members on the bridge behind him. He bounced back into the pilot's seat, a wide grin splitting his face. That had been _wizard,_ no doubt about it.

He had found the gravity mine – not even using the scanners, because the Force told him exactly where to aim the turbo lasers – and then the captain himself had fired the massive defensive cannon, and the mine had blown up – it was _rugged, _there had been _such _ a blast of light and tiny shards of metal spinning wildly in space amid a glorious conflagration – and then Anakin, the champion podracer, the amazing pilot, had flown this _huge, choobazzi_ cruiser out of there – twisting and speeding, leaving the pirate ship far behind.

He bounced up and down a few more times, beaming as the captain and the navigator and a couple other people pounded him on the back and praised his bravery and daring. Master Obi Wan was a _genius,_ too! Launching the salon pod like that…with the Togorian boarding pod still firmly planted in its hull…that was a stroke of brilliance. The pirates must be _furious_. They were prob'ly doing a dance of rage and cussing a blue streak, all sorts of interesting bad words Anakin hadn't ever heard before. It was too bad he couldn't be there for that.

When Master came through the bridge doors – any moment now – Anakin would rush over and give him an enormous hug, even though that wasn't allowed, and then Obi Wan would smile and tell Anakin that he had done well. It wouldn't be a big smile, because Master only used his full grin when he forgot to be serious, like in the middle of an intense spar with some of the other Jedi in the dojo, when he was so deep in the Force he was almost laughing. But it would still be a smile, full of pride. And he would pat Anakin's back very gently and say _well done _and that would be just as good as a hug.

Any minute now. Any second now.

"All right, Master Jedi," the captain addressed him. "If you don't mind…I think the crew can take over now."

Oh. Anakin relinquished the seat and bounded to the upper deck, and then to the bridge doors. Any second now.

"We'll stop at the Tophos spaceport for repairs," the captain told his officers. "Inform the delegates that the crisis is past and we will experience a short delay."

"Yes, sir." One of the uniformed Republic diplomatic corps men excused himself as he slipped past Anakin. The doors opened, but the corridor beyond was empty. Anakin couldn't wait any longer. He dashed down the narrow hallway himself. He would meet Master halfway, and ask him all about the Togorians: how many had he cut down with his saber and what did they look like and what curse words did they use when they realized that their intended victims were protected by real _Jedi?_ His boots slapped rapidly along the decks, as he descended to the lower level, as he doubled back toward the salon pod entrance…

No Obi Wan. He skidded to halt, his progress blocked by the emergency pressure shields, by a flashing control panel that indicated the pod had been launched.

Anakin looked around, his heart beginning to sink. Where was his master? Shouldn't he be here….? Shouldn't he….?

And then another thought coalesced in the whirl of half-formed images roiling in his imagination, a thought so clear and obvious that it cut through his confusion like a thin shiv piercing his belly. The pod could only be launched remotely from the bridge, or from the inside of the salon itself.

He swallowed. "Master?" he said aloud, but he knew he would not receive an answer. He slid to his knees, staring forlornly at the blank wall of durasteel before him. Obi Wan had been _inside_ the pod when it was launched. He had done it himself. He had intended to do it all along. Anakin bit down on his lower lip, hard, but he could not stop its trembling.

And because nobody else was here to see it, because he wasn't really a Jedi anyway, not without his master, he started to cry.

Obi Wan was gone.

* * *

><p>A deep, coarse voice was chanting foreign syllables over him….the rough tones fell in an uneven cadence, rasping deep and gutturally. They seemed to repeat themselves, as though the words were a magical imprecation or some such superstitious formality. There was a revolting scent of smoldering herbs in the air, too – a musky, choking odor, thick with acrid remnants of some dried plant. Obi Wan squinted through the murk, saw the blue-white trails of dirty smoke twisting sluggishly in the darkened space.<p>

The chanting stopped and a broad face – a pair of leering yellow eyes and slatted nostrils, surrounded by a ruff of thick black fur- was shoved close to his own, reeking breath wafting hotly onto his face. He coughed, and the spasm set his aching side into a tumult of complaint. He reflexively reached to press a hand against it – only to discover that his hands were pinned down by heavy binders. He was lying flat on a raised platform – a ship's bunk, he guessed, or one in a cell somewhere. It would depend how long he had been out of commission, really. The Togorian eventually withdrew and began the chant afresh, circling a smudge pot in the air over his body a few more times.

"That's enough," a second voice commanded, and the low murmur of words and the stinking smoke shuffled to a halt and then disappeared, to be replaced by another specter: the fearsome warlord in battered armor, the one who had led the raid on the Republic cruiser. The huge warrior stood over him, a black shadow in the gloom. "I am Gherru Rhak'an," this individual announced, in halting Basic. "You are my prisoner, and at my sole mercy, Jedi."

He did not need the explanation to guess that he was a prisoner – certain other obvious indications being readily to hand – but he did not mention this to the Togorian. There was no need to be offensive, at least in this stage in the relationship. He cleared his throat roughly and found his voice. "That knife," he rasped. "Was it poisoned?" He needed to know, and soon – if there were toxins in his system, it would be much more difficult to heal…and would complicate the matter of _escape,_ which was the next item on his personal agenda.

The Togorian's facial muscles rippled in what might be his species' equivalent of a shrug. "Only with _nirghram_," he grunted. "But I intended no insult to your powers."

"Oh, I'm not insulted," Obi Wan assured him. He _was,_ however, distinctly uncomfortable. His side throbbed with vibrant pain, and a worrisome dizziness and fever were creeping up on him without permission. The wound was bad – and had manifestly not been treated beyond a rough bandaging and the application of something grey and sticky, which was even now soaking through the thick cloth wrapped sloppily about his torso. He wondered vaguely why they had bothered to spare his life but not treat his injury properly.

"You will also forgive the customs of the _solu-tuma_. You and I know that their chants and potions have no true effect. It is _prama _ which will save you. And if not, then you are no true sorcerer worthy of the name."

_Prama?_ He watched the hulking warrior pace back and forth in the dingy, low-ceilinged space. Did he mean…the Force? There was something odd about this Togorian…his presence was darkly radiant, a kind of lightless effusion in the plenum. Could he sense the life energy that bound all things together? And if so, what was his interest in the Jedi? And in him particularly?

There was no need to fret over the question for long; as though reading his mind, Gherru Rhak'an continued, his voice echoing harshly off the walls. "You will either die or heal yourself of that knife wound," he said. "And when you have accomplished this first piece of sorcery, you will instruct me in the art, so that I may master it better. And also you will show me all the ways of _prama, _ how you can use it in combat and how you can foresee your enemies' desires and plans."

The tiny, dank room was beginning to spin nauseatingly. Yes, that knife wound was going to be rather problematic. "I cannot show you the ways of..ah.._prama_, unless you release me," he suggested, bringing the persuasive power of the Force to bear. "I need to have my hands free to work the magic."

Gherru Rkak'an halted his pacing and growled deep in his throat. "I _feel_ your mind pressing against mine," he warned. "Do not attempt such treachery, Jedi, or I will punish you severely."

_Blast_. "Nonetheless," he reasoned with his obstinate captor, "I do need my hands free. I cannot teach you _anything_ when I am bound like this."

The Togorian hissed in his face. "I do not trust you."

"I cannot teach a coward, either. The…ways of _prama_ do not allow it." It was a dangerous gamble – one which even Qui Gon Jin might have been hesitant to make in such conditions - but he followed the sudden inspiration of instinct.

And was rewarded. Gherru Rhak'an growled menacingly, but seemed to assent to the condition. Whatever he knew or thought he knew of the Force, it did apparently include some notion of personal honor and courage. That was good to know; it might prove useful. With a snort, the warlord released his prisoner's wrists.

"But if you attempt to escape," he warned, "I will kill you myself. With the death of thousand cuts."

When the Togorian had withdrawn, leaving a distinctive musky scent in his wake, Obi Wan rolled onto his side and gingerly felt around the edges of the knife wound. Pain resounded deep beneath his gently searching fingers, spread in shivering waves up his spine and down his left leg. Not good. There might be internal damage, and certainly there was fever and infection. And toxins, spreading in his blood. Whatever viscous gunk the _solu-tuma_ had smeared on the injury burned mercilessly, and felt hot where he touched it. Hopefully the folk remedy was essentially harmless – he had enough problems as it was.

One of those problems was named Anakin Skywalker. He had given the boy instructions, and the Padawan had faithfully carried them out. The cruiser had escaped the pirates' trap, and was presumably on route to its destination. But what would happen when Anakin realized that his master was not on board? Obi Wan could only imagine his young and emotional apprentice's reaction. Would he have the sense to contact the Council? Would he have the self-control to remain calm and follow orders? Would he have the …detachment…to continue on his way without his teacher? That last thought was a grim one. Would Anakin even be permitted to remain in the Order's ranks without Obi Wan as his champion? Grimacing, he pushed the worrisome train of thought aside. There was only one conclusion: he needed to escape, and quickly. Before things became complicated.

But escape was out of the question until he had recovered, at least partially. Closing his eyes, he drew in the soothing and restoring power of the Force, concentrating on the deep puncture wound, the malicious effects of _nirghram_ – whatever vile substance that might be - and the resulting imbalance in his body. Breathe out pain, breathe in strength…

It looked as though he would need the latter - in abundance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Rarely did the high Council convene in the dead of Coruscant's night to receive a live holo-transmission; had Anakin Skywalker been aware of the exceptional concern his message engendered, he would perhaps have swelled with the pride of celebrity. However, he remained oblivious to the time difference between Tophos 6 and Coruscant, and indeed, oblivious to almost everything but his own distress and the grave news he imparted to the eight attentive Councilors present in the Jedi Temple's high southern spire.

The boy's blue image sputtered in the center of the room, cast downward from the projector discreetly mounted in the domed ceiling. The Padawan's hands were clenched together in front of his body – and not in the customary posture of patient respect. He was busily unraveling the hem of one tunic sleeve, without being aware of the nervous activity of his fingers.

"Padawan." Mace Windu repeated, his dark face shadowed further by lack of sleep and worry. "Calm yourself and answer the question. Are the delegates safe, and is the captain of the ship able to complete their transit?"

The very young boy's face rumpled in an expression of distaste, and of impatience. His blue eyes widened, frustration bleeding in their depths. "Yes, master - they're all safe," he stammered. "The captain says they will continue on when the hyperdrive is fixed. And there were no injuries or casualties during the pirate attack." He stopped and took several long breaths.

Master Windu nodded, and flicked a glance sideways at Yoda, who perched upon his chair like a weathered gnome, white hair standing up straight off his wrinkled skull.

"Then you are relieved of further duty on this mission," Mace decided. "The dangerous leg of the delegation's journey is complete. You will remain with the crusier at Tophos until a Jedi escort is sent to bring you back to Coruscant."

Anakin's slight figure went ram-rod straight. "What about Obi Wan?" he demanded, voice edging on a childish whine. "My master is …is…we can't just do _nothing!"_

Adi Gallia tipped her head to one side and exchanged a meaningful look with Ki Adi Mundi; several other members of the revered Coucnil stirred and murmured to those sitting beside them. The boy was far past his control, and not exhibiting proper Jedi restraint.

"An experienced Master will we send," Yoda assured the trembling boy. "Dangerous the Togorians are growing. Return to the Temple you will. If able to find Master Kenobi we are, then find him we will."

Anakin looked mutinous, his bottom lip jutting out and his forehead creasing in a deep scowl reminiscent of his teacher's most thunderous expression of disapproval. He swallowed, forcing a lump down his throat, and then bowed, his short braid dangling over one shoulder as he straightened. "Yes, master," he said in a wavering voice.

The hologram faded, and dim golden illumination returned to the hushed Council room.

"The Togorians seldom take prisoners," Mace Windu broke the ensuing silence.

"Alive, Obi Wan is," Yoda grumbled. "Feel a disturbance I would, if killed he had been."

"Then we must attempt a rescue," Ki Adi Mundi put in. "Who is closest to that sector?"

"Master Piell," Mace supplied. "I will contact him immediately."

* * *

><p>The dwarf-statured Jedi Master Even Piell received the news with equanimity. "Togorians, eh?" he said to Mace Windu's flickering image. "I'm vell acquainted vith dem." One broad, calloused hand came up to rub at his blunt chin. "Obi Van seems to pick his fights vith an eye to dramatic effect."<p>

The Korun master shook his head. "He's in over his head this time, Even. It sounds from the Padawan's description as though he faced down an entire boarding party. If Yoda didn't insist that he's still alive, I would assume the worst."

"Dat's your vay," Even shrugged. "But our Sith-slayer has a talent for avoiding de vorst."

"The Togorians in that sector have been growing much more aggressive over the last decade. We suspect a change in leadership – somebody with more brains than their usual warmongering overlords."

Even Piell's long pointed ears dipped as he nodded his head. His glossy black topknot caught the light behind him. "He can't be so brainy if he's taking Jedi prisoners," he shot back. "I'll go find Obi Van myself."

"Be cautious," Mace advised him. "I sense something out of the ordinary – this may not be an ordinary foe."

But Master Piell was unimpressed. He set his thin mouth in a hard line. "Ordinary or not, I know my vay around Togorians." He tapped the side of his face, where a long, deforming line mangled his eye and pulled the flesh around it into a permanent scowl. "And I've got de scars to prove it."

"May the Force be with you," the tall Korun Jedi said, ending the hasty transmission.

Master Piell patted the saber hilt hanging at his side, and decided that he was packed and ready to depart. Tophos 6 was a short hyperspace jump away. He would pack Kenobi's Padawan up on his own Republic shuttle and then take care of business with the Togorians. The half of his face that wasn't paralyzed by the scar smiled in grim anticipation.

* * *

><p>Gherru Rhak'an was nothing if not an attentive host.<p>

"If you can harness then power of _prama_ to save yourself from death, Jedi, then why do you not seek immortality?"

Of course, his bedside manner left something to be desired. Obi Wan breathed out slowly, centering on the healing power of the Force, thrusting his irritation at the constant barrage of questions to the edge of awareness. "No living thing is meant to be immortal," he muttered. He was making progress, but all too slowly, no doubt due to the poisoned blade. He inhaled.

"_Prama_ itself is immortal and indestructible," Rhak'an observed, his rumbling voice filling and overflowing the cramped cell. "So why should its servants not be the same?"

Exhale. He didn't feel like engaging in philosophical disputation with his captor – though, admittedly, abstract discourse was far preferable to the customary deprivations and occasional torture one encountered in similar situations. Perhaps he should be grateful to the Force for granting him such a reprieve.

"Death is as much part of …_prama…_ as life is," he answered, softly, though gritted teeth. Slow inhalation. Draw in strength, peace, healing. Mend the torn flesh, knit together damaged tissues, purge poison.

"Yes," Rhak'an mused. "I see what you mean, sorcerer. Those who wield _prama _ deal out death to their foes, do they not? And so they give both life and death, and are lords over both of them. There is a unity of opposites. A contradiction."

Exhale again. Gently, so as not to strain bruised ribs. How long until he could walk? Run? Jump? Fight? What was happening to Anakin right now? Would he have contacted the Council? Would they send someone to fetch the Padawan back to the Temple, before he attempted something stupid?

"Not a contradiction," he corrected the hulking figure squatting beside him. The Togorian's breath was foul, but there was a certain…docility…to the curve of his massive shoulders and back, to the tilt of his ugly head as he listened to the "magician's" teachings. There was a hunger for knowledge spreading like a damp stain in the Force – a hunger tainted by greed and pride, but a true desire nonetheless. Odd.

Talking hurt. Inhale. Deeply. Slowly. "Balance," he continued, eyes closed. "Life and death are part of the cycle. Just as teaching and learning are. Commanding and obeying. Resisting and yielding. Action and stillness. Grief and joy. There is a complement to everything in existence."

The Togorian rose to his feet. "You will show me this balance," he declared. "Why are you not healed already? Are your powers waning?"

The Force shimmered with warning. Fortunately, he had not included _deceiving and being deceived_ in his litany of opposites. "No," he improvised. "But the _prama_ in this place is weak. It has been polluted."

The warlord growled, deep in his throat, his slatted nostrils flaring red. "Ah. The traitors who died in this cell last were pathetic cowards. They begged for mercy like sniveling curs. It must be their spirits which desecrated the _prama_ here."

Obi Wan's eyebrows rose. Rhak'an was an imaginative fellow. That was useful. "You mustn't stay here," he warned. "Lest their weakness corrupt your own mastery of the secret arts. You must learn in a place where the _prama_ is clear and strong. Perhaps your own chambers."

The Togorian grumbled some more, his black fur rippling delicately. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes. I see the wisdom of this. But you will come with me, Jedi. You will teach me all that you know. Do not attempt treachery."

Exhale. _There is no try_; hadn't anyone ever told the arrogant bully anything? "I'm in no condition to attempt treachery," he lied.

The warlord seemed satisfied with this assurance, and retreated into the darkened corridor outside to shout orders at the guards in his native tongue. Obi Wan permitted himself a fleeting smile. Oh, he had a few things to teach Gherru Rhak'an - yes, indeed.

* * *

><p>The small blonde Padawan was waiting for him in the docking bay, his body a splash of white tunics and rigid expectation against the dull grey decking. Even Piell descended the shuttle's ramp, good eye taking in the space station's gleaming interior, the clutter of service droids and refueling equipment littered about the wide bay. The Tophosians were an amicable, if disorganized culture. He wondered how long it would take their mechanics to restore the diplomatic corps' ship, and whether the delegates were enjoying their layover on the unglamorous backworld.<p>

"Master Piell!" Anakin Skywalker was bowing to him. The lad was maybe a hand taller than Even, not counting hair. And he must weigh about half as much. The Jedi master flexed his muscular hand around his saber pommel. "Vell, Padavan. I'm here to clean up dis mess your master made. Come dis vay and talk to me a moment."

The boy looked outraged at the suggestion that his mentor's predicament could be described as a mess, but he fell into step beside Even anyway, trotting to keep up with the sprightly master's short, quick strides.

"I've already got coordinates for the attack," Master Piell told him, leading the way into the quieter pedestrian concourse outside the docking bay proper. Hover trams whizzed past them, bearing piles of sloppily stacked luggage to other hangars. "Did you see these Togorian pirates yourself?"

Skywalker scowled, his tiny human nose crinkling into an abbreviated snub, bright blue eyes shining. "No," he complained. "Master Obi Wan told me to fly the ship away, and I did…and I didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't tell me. And..and I thought he would just hold them off."

"Vat? Tvelve varriors vit heavy weaponry? Dat's pretty bad odds, Padavan."

"Master Obi Wan's amazing!" the young boy objected hotly. "You should see him!"

"Vo! Vo! I have seen him – I've fought vit him. He's a holy terror vit a 'saber. But that's not the point. Ve've got to figure out vere they vould have taken him." He rubbed at his chin pensively. "That warship vas vaiting for you, hm?"

"They had a gravity mine set up – it yanked our cruiser out of hyperspace."

The dwarfish Jedi narrowed his one eye. "Hm. Playing dirty. There's only von thing to do about dat."

Anakin looked at him hopefully. "We're gonna play dirty, too?" he asked, shoulders finally lifting with a measure of hope.

"Ve? No, not ve. Yer going straight back to Coruscant."

"But –" The boy stopped himself before his frantic objection could make itself heard. His mouth puckered in manifest disapproval and his fists clenched at his sides. "But Master would _want _ me to come!" he stammered out after a moment's hesitation.

"Oh? So then vy did he send you to the bridge ven he knew he vas going to face those Togorians, eh? Your Master vanted you safe and out of the vay, Skyvalker. Now get on board." He jerked one large thumb in the direction of the vessel he had just arrived on. "The pilot's vaiting for you. I'll find Obi Van and bring him home."

The spirited Padawan tried to stare him down, but Even Piells' infamous _look-that-could –kill_ was more than a match for his youthful fervor. He blinked back tears of frustration and bowed, stalking away in the direction of the hangar bay. Master Piell nodded once as he departed, his long glossy topknot swishing at the back of his head.

"Obi Van, my boy," he muttered darkly. "You'll never make it easy, vill you?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Anakin pattered up the open boarding ramp of the light shuttle and paused in the cargo bay. He could see the cockpit – all blinking lights and clean, efficient lines – and he could sense the pilot's presence, a stir of boredom and impatience swirling gently in the Force. All he had to do was step through the open hatchway, inform the man that he was ready to depart, and they would lift away into the stars, headed straight back to Coruscant. Where he would return to his studies and other training, and wait for Master Piell to bring back Obi Wan.

And wait.

And wait.

And what if that never happened? Or worse yet, what if it happened _the wrong way?_ Once, when a sand storm had hit Mos Espa without the usual warning, one of Watto's trading partners had been caught out past the settlement boundaries. A search party had gone to look for him, and for the three slaves he had taken with him into the wilderness, on a junk scavenging expedition. Anakin and his mother had waited up late for the searchers to return. When they did, Alba – a tall, weatherbeaten slave with grizzled hair, a kind, stooped-back man that had been sold a few years later – had stopped in the low doorway of their shelter. "We found them," he said, in his rasping bacci-laden voice.

And Anakin knew from the slump of his mother's brave shoulders, and the tight line of her mouth, that this was not the kind of _finding_ that they had been hoping for. And he knew that it would have been different if _he _ had gone…because he could sense things that other people couldn't, because he was born to help people. To save them.

He swallowed and shifted on the spot. The Council – Mace Windu himself, the embodiment of everything stern and disapproving and implacable in the Jedi Order – had told him to return to Coruscant. And that's what Obi Wan would want him to do. Go back and wait. Obey. Be patient. Leave the finding to more capable hands.

But did he really know that? Master's instructions on board the cruiser had been clear as a Tatooine sky: blast the gravity mine, get the ship out of there. He had done those things. But there hadn't been any orders specifying what he should do afterwards. And the Council's edict wasn't the same as his master's word…he had figured that out a long time ago now. He had figured that out the moment Obi Wan had taken him for his Padawan. Because Anakin wasn't stupid: he had _heard_ the Council's rejection. And he had heard Qui Gon Jinn insist that the strange boy be trained. When Obi Wan announced against all expectation that he was _determined_ , when he _promised_ that Anakin would be a Jedi, it was glaringly obvious where his ultimate loyalties lay.

The master's word was much, much more important than the petty dictates of the Council. Obi Wan had been willing to outright _defy_ the Council for Qui Gon Jinn's sake…so shouldn't Anakin return the favor?

He stepped forward into the cockpit.

The pilot was a pleasant-faced man in his forties. "Ah. Padawan…Skywalker, is it?"

The young Jedi nodded and folded his hands in front of him the way Master always did when engaging in diplomacy. "Yes," he said, in his most dignified voice. "I have come to tell you that there has been a change of plans."

The captain of the small vessel frowned. "I haven't received any further instructions."

What would Obi Wan do? He never missed a beat. He would….say… "That's why I'm here. I'm to tell you to return to Coruscant, and not to make any transmissions regarding Master Piell's location or activities. Our mission is sensitive."

The pilot nodded once, but his eyes still held a measure of suspicion, or incomprehension. Anakin held his breath, waited. Master could prob'ly do this so much better…but he wasn't here. He had left his apprentice to deal with the problem on his own. He had to believe that was because Obi Wan had so much faith in his abilities. Buoyed by this happy thought, emboldened by the warmth spreading in his chest, he pressed on, imitating one of Master's very favorite tactics.

"That's just fine," he said gravely, fingers curling in the gesture of mind compulsion, the Force reverbrating in tune with his desire, with the subtly imposed thought.

"That's fine," the captain repeated dully.

"You can take off right away," Anakin added for good measure.

"I'll take off immediately," the pilot responded, his will as limp as a drunken Jawa.

A handful of minutes later, as he stood on the docking bay's scuffed decking, gazing at the retreating shuttle's retreating silhouette through the shimmering maglev barrier, the Padawan's pride of accomplishment was slowly eclipsed by another, rather sobering, thought. Obi Wan always said that _the Force can have a marvelous influence on the weak-minded; _ but he also said that _abuse of power is far worse than any other failing._

"Master's going to kill me," he whispered to himself.

But it was too late now. With a grimace, he turned his back on the empty hangar and trotted away. As long as Obi Wan was all right when they found him, Anakin would gladly let his master kill him in recompense. It was a matter of balance, he supposed. For now, he had a job to do.

* * *

><p>It was amusing to chain the sorcerer-pup inside his private chambers. Gherru had suspected, as the escort of four guards marched his prisoner along the passages leading to his lofty and well-fortified abode, that the Jedi might try to escape. But the strange human had stumbled along – docilely enough – and had not made any attempt to assault the Togorians in transit. This was prudent, for the fortress was a twisting warren of corridors and hallways, packed with Rhakan's warriors and servants.<p>

Perhaps the Jedi was wiser than his brash behavior aboard the cruiser suggested. Rhak'an noted this. A quiet and cunning opponent was to be watched more cautiously than a loud and aggressive one, as any intelligent ruler and strategist knew.

He ordered the guards to secure the captive by his neck to the ceremonial _erbuk'ah _post in the room's center. The Jedi had said that it needed its hands free to work its various magics, and Rhak'an felt this was a fair compromise. Also it amused him greatly to see the proud warrior - who had felled and maimed so many fierce enemies aboard the Republic ship- reduced to wearing a slave collar and chained to the ceremonial post reserved for the combative-dominance portion of the traditional Togorian mating ritual. Since this was not one of the months in which Rhak'an's six wives would tolerate his company, he had no other use for the carved ornamental column, anyway.

"Now," he commanded, when the armed escort had retreated to their stations outside the heavy doors, "You will teach me the ways of your _prama._ Gherru Rhak'an will have your wisdom for his own."

He did not like the human's eyes. There was something disconcerting about the way the blue and white circles glittered and changed shape as his face moved. They were too mutable, like a treacherous sea. "You must begin with the fundamentals we teach our smallest younglings," the wizard informed him.

"You teach such dangerous power to children?" Rhak'an fumed.

"I have a student who is still a child," the Jedi observed, "And he is far ahead of _you."_

This revelation was infuriating. Gherru Rhak'an, greatest of all Togorian warlords of his clan heritage, was nothing compared to the smallest Jedi whelp? It was intolerable. "You will make up this deficit _now,"_ he rumbled. "Teach me the tricks you have imparted to this _child."_

The Jedi shifted uncomfortably. The guards had thoughtlessly fixed the short chain so high on the post that the sorcerer was forced to stand in place, his back pressed against the hard petrified wood of the column. But the awkward position was also a convenient reminder of rank and power. Here, Rhak'an was lord, the Jedi at his mercy. "I am not certain that your mind is…appropriately keen," the Jedi said.

The young magician spoke like one of the Republic _arista. _The Togorian wondered whether the Jedi stole babies even from the powerful and rich of their own people; and whether this sorcerer had been wrested from the white breast of its mother by force of arms…perhaps the soft human female had been impaled in front of her defeated mate first. That is what Rhak'an would have done. It was the proper way. But the customs of the Jedi were strange to him.

"I am more than capable," he spat out, drawing near enough to the Jedi to smell its skin and the metallic tang of dark blood drying on its clothing. "Try me and you will see that _prama _ is my servant."

"Very well, " the Jedi agreed, its strange eyes changing again. The _prama _ rolled and surged around it, confusing and enchanting. Rhak'an growled deep in his throat. Such a one as this was _not_ to be trusted, even if its face-hair was still short and soft. "You must understand that in the _prama, _ for those who have the gift, it is possible to share images and to see another's thoughts without speaking."

"I have heard of this," Rhak'an murmured reverently. At last, the veil would be lifted. His blood trembled in expectation, in longing. For this was his birthright.

"You must still your mind," the sorcerer warned him. "I will project something – in the Force. The _prama. _ Quiet your thoughts and tell me what you see."

Gherru Rhak'an was far more experienced than a child. He knew of what the Jedi spoke. And here, in the presence of the accomplished magician, the _prama_ itself seemed to flow more majestically, more steadily, than ever before. At such a time, in such a place, the power flowed in with one's life-breath, and kindled deep beneath the ribs, in the hearth flame of the body, near the belly. Rhak'an summoned the _prama, _ felt it flourish within him as it never had before. Was this the Jedi's doing? Perhaps: for the human had its changing, inscrutable eyes closed now. It was working some magic already, weaving a picture in the _prama_ itself. Rhak'an shut his own eyes, relished the hot fire burning in his breath, the swelling energy that drove behind his heartbeats. Yes, this was the way. He drew back his lips, as though tasting the finest vintage mixed with bitter _yrrkshcel _ blood, the delicacy of feasting tables.

He saw…_a towering white fortress, floating above a stone foundation, peerless shining walls surmounted by proud towers, lofty spears of ivory thrusting into a sun-smeared sky. Dark shapes flitted in the heavens beyond it, and light shone from its pinnacles, bright in the looming dusk. Prama rested upon this place like a mantle, a veil over a tabernacle of awful purity._

Rhak'an snarled and pushed the sorcerer's illusion away. The _prama _ recoiled as he spat upon the floor.. "What cursed place is that?" he demanded.

The furred ridges above the human's eyes lifted. "My home," it said.

Rhak'an set his jaw, his teeth grinding. "I will show you that Gherru Rhak'an is your equal, Jedi. _Prama _ is mine also to command. I will push my image into your mind, now."

The Jedi twisted a little, scoffing. "You will not be able to make me see your home," it smiled. "That is a skill only the most powerful among us have cultivated."

Fur rippling, rasping breaths edging the _prama _ with fire born of the Jedis' insolence, Rhak'an gathered every shred of mental power he possessed, every dark secret he had nurtured into seedling life within himself, and assaulted the sorcerer with an image of _his _ fortress, _his _ stronghold and refuge. Around them, an awful pressure seemed to build, as though Rhak'an's mind would be broken and dissolve like seafoam upon hard rock, but uttering the _uzzan'sha,_ the cry of the war deities, he threw his whole soul upon the wizard's feeble defenses. And the _prama_ shattered, the image of the white temple melting into that of Rhak'an's palace, its every hall and cellar, its corridors and ramparts, its dungeons and treasure houses and barracks full of warriors, and hangars full of mighty ships, and its proud throne room and its wide dining hall and the slave quarters and its foundations set in the living rock of the mountains. He roared, triumphant, as the Jedi's mind yielded beneath the superior power of his own.

"I am Gherru Rhak'an, and even _prama _ is my servant!" he declared, secure in victory, in this demonstration of his ascendancy.

The Jedi's teeth bared again. "I stand humbly corrected," it murmured, in a properly subdued and respectful fashion.

Rhak'an laughed then, gloating. "Tomorrow you will show me more of your arts," he decided. "Now it is time for eating and sleeping. You will stay here. If you beg me with due reverence, I will feed you later." He considered the young sorcerer closely. He still did not trust those changing pale-colored eyes, nor slight curve of its soft human mouth._._ Poking one clawed finger into the Jedi's injured side, he leaned forward. "Now that we know who is truly stronger with _prama."_

"Oh yes, I think that is quite clear," the human agreed, in its quiet, musical voice.

Rhak'an took a moment to shackle his guest's hands to the post, as a precautionary measure, and swept out of his chamber to join the feast. Tonight, in celebration, he would drink deeply. And perhaps he would dream of his future power.

He had everything he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"Are you crazy?" the Tophosian shipping company official squeaked. "Any one of my ships is worth ten times that amount!" He leaned over the counter, glaring at the hard-faced diminutive warrior on the other side.

Jedi Master Even Piell didn't flinch, his dark eye narrowing with determination "Dat ships' worth nothing to you if you lose it in a Togorian pirate raid," he pointed out. "And you von't collect any Trade Federation insurance payouts in this sector."

The round-bellied Tophosian settled back in his plastoid chair but continued to glower at the uninvited intruder into his private office. He made a mental note to replace his secretary with a droid model – one that couldn't be swayed by Jedi mind tricks – and rapped the seven fingers on his left hand against the edge of the polished counter. "So you think I'm gonna let you take one of my freighters out into pirate territory – just kiss it goodbye – and sit here happy with two thousand dataries?"

The short, ferocious looking Jedi just nodded once, his hard thin mouth an unremitting line. "If you don't vant the credits ve could alvays just appropriate the ship in the name of the Republic and leave you vit nothink.."

"You can't _do_ that!" the portly manager bellowed. "That's illegal!"

"So I'll deal vit that in a couple years ven your lawsuit comes up vit the Senate courts," the dwarf Jedi grumbled, his face still implacable. "Right now, I'm taking von of your ships."

The Tophosian slammed both hands palm downwards on the countertop. "I don't _want _to be involved in Jedi business!" he complained.

"So you don't have to come vit me," the Jedi snapped.

Rubbing his temples and smoothing his vibrant scalp ridges, the official seized the cup of cold argee dregs from earlier this morning and swallowed the bitter sludge in one go. Thus fortified, he took a deep breath. "Fine. Two thousand dataries and I'm not involved."

The scar-faced Jedi sent a packet of credit chits skittering across the smooth surface between them and collected the ignition cylinder and security codes for the ship without a word of thanks. His long tail of black hair swished gently against his cloak as he turned to leave.

"A pleasure doing business vit you," he shot over one shoulder, departing through the door at a brisk gait, his small body rolling along with a strange fluidity for someone of his compact build.

"Choobah," the Tophosian spat out under his breath when the Jedi had finally disappeared. Still, the battered spice freighter in question was little more than a heap of junk – might as well sacrifice it to the pirates. He shoved the money into a pocket of his vest and pondered whether to report the sale on the company tax forms or not.

Choobassi Jedi bastard. Maybe the pirates would finish him off too. You never knew.

He got up to pour himself a fresh cup of arjees.

* * *

><p>Gherru Rhak'an returned to his quarters very late in the night cycle, and rather drunk. Obi Wan felt the warlord's hot breath wafting on his face as he sat in mediation posture with his back propped against the column in the room's center. Serene within the Force, he ignored the unpleasant stench of half-masticated meat and reeking alcohol which mingled with the Togorian's natural musk….but when the pirate raised a dirty clawed finger to poke curiously at him, he was obliged to seize Rhak'an's wrist in a crushing grip.<p>

The Togorian chuckled heartily and withdrew. "You are a fine sorcerer," he growled.

Obi Wan opened his eyes, reluctantly centering himself back in the present moment. The Togorian seemed to be sincere. "And you are a fine brigand," he returned the compliment.

Rhak'an puzzled over this for a moment, toeing at he shattered remnants of the chains and manacles which had earlier shackled his prisoner to the post. "I think you are mocking me, Jedi. Do not exercise your wit at my expense."

"I'll keep such thoughts in my head, then."

Rhak'an grumbled deep in his throat. "I would break the spine of any underling who spoke to me with such disrespect," he rumbled.

"Ah…but then you would not be able to learn the ways of prama from me. You've certainly maneuvered yourself into a tight spot…but then, womprats prefer enclosed spaces."

The warlord loomed closer, nostrils flaring. "Do you torment your own student with your forked tongue, sorcerer?" he demanded.

"So he tells me."

The Togorian seemed moderately gratified by this answer. He pointed to the broken chains. "If you can use the _prama_ to free yourself, why did you not attempt to escape?" he queried, heavy eye ridges lowering over dark eyes.

"Escape?" The Jedi raised an eyebrow. "I have far too much respect for your power to attempt anything so brash."

Rhak'an paused in his pacing and peered down at him suspiciously, double rows of sharp teeth grinding together as his jaws worked. "I do not trust you," he muttered.

"You can chain me back up," Obi Wan offered, magnanimously, "But it won't make a difference. We both need to sleep – you're drunk, and I'm still healing from that knife you so kindly planted in my side."

The Togorina's chuckle was wet, and unpleasant sounding. "You amuse me, magician. My warriors will kill you if you set foot past that door."

"I could kill_ you_ in your sleep," Obi Wan pointed out.

"You won't," Rhak'an declared confidently. "I have studied your ways. You are bound by a deep magic not to slay an unarmed opponent. I think your powers will flee you if you break the sacred laws of your Order." His armor and ceremonial weapons clattered to the floor by his enormous sleep-mat. "You will stay here in my chamber, like a pet akk." The Togorian collapsed in a sprawl upon his bed, moonlight filtering through the slatted stonework above. "Ahhhh…"

A moment later the silence was ruptured by Rhak'an's thunderous snores. Sighing, Obi Wan closed his eyes and sank back into the Force. A little while longer…his injury was slow to knit, but it _was_ improving. The Force would lend him what strength he needed, and would provide the opportunity. All he had to do was wait.

* * *

><p>Master Even Piell guided the dilapidated spice freighter into jump position and double checked the coordinates on the nav computer. His intended course would take him in a casual loop through several pirate-controlled hyperlanes – shortcut shipping routes which only the most foolhardy of captains might choose. The Republic diplomatic cruiser's crew had reported their own assault in the same district, and if the Force willed it, the Togorians would still be busily scouring the area for more prey.<p>

He grasped the hyperdrive accelerator and threw the clunking ship into an inelegant headlong rush past lightspeed. The drives made a terrible grinding sound – obviously nobody had bothered to maintain the fuel uptakes with any degree of regularity. Shaking his head, he left the ship on autopilot and ambled back to the cargo hold. The small, boxy bay was empty but for a few cargo crates stacked against the bulkheads. Even grunted and trailed one hand along the plastoid paneling. Such small freighters were always provided with one or two cunningly concealed smuggler's hatches.

He stopped and rapped hard on the portion of wall directly before him. "You might as vell come out now," he commanded.

No answer. "In tree seconds I'm going to cut through that paneling vit my 'saber."

The smuggler's hatch appeared in outline as the cleverly hidden seams widened into a crack, and then the thin layer of reinforced, sensor-repellant material swung open to reveal the dusty and pout-faced figure of Anakin Skywalker. "You knew I was there the whole time," he muttered, shame-facedly.

"Vell, yes," the Jedi master snorted, good eye raking the boy up and down with an appraising severity. "You're not _that_ good, Padavan."

The blonde child stepped out onto the decking and sneezed violently, brushed a stray cobweb out of his short hair. His blue eyes burned with hurt. "Why didn't you kick me out before we took off?" he demanded, hope and confusion warring in his voice.

"I like to fly vitout the chatter," Master Piell curtly informed him, thumbs hooked through his belt. "Now: vat do you tink you're up to, eh?"

"I'm coming to help rescue my master!" the boy asserted, a flutter of anger and fear disturbing the Force around him.

Even snorted again. "You've been taking lessons from Obi Van, all right," he grumbled, turning back toward the cockpit.

Anakin trotted behind him eagerly. "What do you mean?"

"You know vat Togorians do vit stowaways?"

They sat down, Anakin in the copilots' seat, not daring to touch the alluring spread of console instruments or the antiquated nav computer. "Uh…no."

"Dey jettison them out the rear cargo hold."

The blonde child stared at him, eyebrows beetling together into a nervous scowl. "That's not what Jedi do, though," he mumbled. "Master," he added, as a conciliatory gesture.

"I've sat on the Council a good number of years now, my boy. And believe me, you vould be better off vit the Togorians."

The Padawans' skin blanched until it matched his tunic's pale hue – but a crimson flush rose rapidly to replace his pallor. "I don't care what happens to me as long as my master is safe," he growled defiantly.

Master Piell rolled his eye upward. "Obi Van taught you that von, too," he muttered.

"So….you'll let me stay? I can help you?"

"Two Jedi is alvays better than von on a mission," Even admitted.

"And …and you'll explain to the Council later, master?"

Obi Wan's cocky apprentice may have picked up a few disarming habits from his mentor, but he still had _much_ to learn. "Vat? Hells, no, Padavan. I'm goink to have your skin ven ve get back to Coruscant. Unless your master has it first."

"…Oh," the boy gulped.


	7. Chapter 7

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

Gherru Rhak'an rose with first light. The Ancestors had sent him very disturbing dreams in the dark marches of the night, ones which stopped the breath in his lungs. "Get up, sorcerer."

The Jedi slept sitting up, the warlord noted with curiosity. Its small, soft hands were resting on its knees, the clawless fingers curved gently in repose. Its breath rose and fell very slowly. At first he thought it might be dead, but the _prama _ around it swirled with a steady, strong effulgence. It was like a candle flame burning in a windless room – perfectly still in the consuming power of its own heart. He sniffed at the magician's face, smelling the strange human sweat, so salty and wet, and other foreign, human odors. He could not interpret them, but none of it had the tang of fear.

He prodded the Jedi's shoulder. "Rise," he ordered. "I will feed you."

Those small blue and white eyes tracked past him to the room's interior, as though the Jedi were still seeing things in the _prama, _ looking beyond the ordinary. Had the Ancestors shown it the same things that had haunted Rhak'an's sleep?

The Togorian tossed a piece of his own breakfast – a freshly skinned _kirmex - _ in the Jedi's general direction. It hit the floor and left a dark smear.

"I cannot eat raw meat," the magician informed him.

"Then you are a weak softling, pathetic eunuch of an arista court," Rhak'an scoffed. "But this drink will sustain you."

He watched in amusement as the Jedi choked down the cup of _yrrbu_ milk mixed with blood, well-known to be the most nourishing drink for a warrior. The human's face lost some color, but it returned the empty cup with a short bow. "Incomparable," it said.

Rhak'an tore a piece of _kirmex _sinew off with his teeth and considered the young human carefully. Its mind was like the liquid mineral moonsilver, one that eluded grasping hands and flowed like water though it smelled of rock. Rhak'an did not trust it. Perhaps all Jedi were so troublesome. Or perhaps he had chosen the runt of their Temple, the small one which had to rely on cunning and wit because it was too weak to compete with its littermates. He cocked his head to the side. "Tell me, Jedi," he said, cracking a hard piece of bone between his jaws. "What do your people do with the weaklings among their young? Do you expose them to the elements?"

The Jedi's eye-fur-ridges went up toward its hair, which it shoved back from its face with one hand. "No," it answered. "We allow _prama_ to decide the fate of such ones. And we do not think of them as weaklings."

Rhak'an snorted, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Prama decides the fate of our weak, too," he offered. "Those who do not survive the testing of infants were not meant to live in the clan."

"Of course not," the magician demurred, its treacherous eyes shifting again. Rhak'an sensed more disdain and mockery, but he merely tossed the remaining _kirmex _ skeleton into a corner for the servants to clean up later, and stood.

"Today you will show me the power of _prama_ in combat. I wish to do as you did upon the bodies of Gim'kurra and Phadda when you broke their bones upon the far walls. You will show me how to hurl my foes in just this manner."

The Jedi looked hesitant. Rhak'an was coming to understand some of its facial expressions, and the _prama_ rippled with its disapproval.

"_Prama_ is not to be used for violence, except in self-defense, or the defense of innocents," it told him, as though it were the lord and he an errant servant.

"I, Gherru Rhak'an, will decide what uses _prama_ will serve in my hands," he roared. "Your place is teach these unto me, or die. No more of your arrogance."

Then the young sorcerer did a strange thing. It put a hand on its chin and ran the fingers over its soft face-hair, as though stroking the back of a felinoid. Its mouth was hidden by the gesture, though the mutable eyes were fixed on him like a stormcloud about to break.

"If you are to learn this art," the Jedi said at last, "We must find a place to practice. There is no space here. And we will need several large boulders."

Rhak'an grinned in anticipation. "There are stones in the central courtyard. You will teach me this skill there."

But the wizard shook its head. "Such teachings are secret. You do not want your mercenaries and servants learning their uses, do you? We must work without observation."

Rhak'an's fur rose along his spine. He gritted his teeth. "My warriors do not possess the gift. They will not be able to learn its uses."

"Yes…but do you wish them to see you before you have mastered it? Weakness is something which should not be exhibited to one's underlings. Every strong leader knows this."

Rhak'an cracked his knuckles and paced. "Then we shall use the gladiatorial arena below the main levels," he decided. "And you shall be chained. I do not trust you, Jedi."

The magician only watched him with its shifting green-blue eyes. He did not trust the Jedi, and so soon as he had mastered all that it had to teach him, he would have it slain according to the ancient tradition, and drink its lifeblood himself. And then he, Gherru Rhak'an, would indeed be invincible. It was his destiny, whatever the Ancestors chose to say in their lying dreams. It was the will of the _prama._

* * *

><p>"Vell. Ve're about ready. Dis sector should be crawling vit pirates."<p>

Anakin roused himself from an uneasy slumber in the copilot's seat and rubbed at gritty eyes. Before he became a Jedi, he used to imagine that space travel would be unending excitement, a series of thrilling escapades across the stars. Somehow he had not quite got used to the dreary reality – a hyperspace slog, especially in an old clunker like this, was a study in purest ennui. He glanced at the nav interface, but it only showed glowing lines and dots that might be possible reversion points. Hyperspace didn't map onto sublight dimensions, anyway; the schematic was nothing but a visual guide for supra-spatial calculations. And outside the viewport there was nothing but the lazy smears of warped light, blue and white oozing over and around each other, matter and energy coiling about the ship, unsure whether to solidify into plasma or not.

Boring.

"So…are we gonna blast them? Or board _their_ ship?" Anakin scrunched his nose, theorizing on this interesting question.

Master Piell's mouth thinned out, but his eye twinkled. "You're a bloodthirsty fellow, Skyvalker. Ve're not goink to attack innocent Togorians. Ve're goink to make them an offer they can't refuse."

Still stymied, Anakin followed the dwarfish master to the cargo bay, where the diminutive Jedi proceeded to pry open one of the reinforced shipping crates. "Here ve are," he announced. "Manifest says Corellian brandy. That's too good to resist."

"It's empty," the Padawan objected.

"Not for lonk. Get inside."

Open mouthed, wide-eyed, Anakin crawled inside the cramped confines of the plastoid container. Master Piell followed after him, turning round in the close space, and using the Force to pull the seals back into place.

"What are we doing, master? We can't fight pirates in here."

'Ve're playing dirty, my boy. Pretty soon now, this freighter's bound to hit a gravity mine. Togorians vill board her, gut the controls, and make off vit all the valuable cargo. That's us."

Anakin slid down against the hard interior of the crate. "Won't they suspect something?"

He could just make out the gleam of Master Piell's eye. "Togorians aren't the brightest stars in the nebula, " the Jedi master grunted. "They'll assume the ship vas sent through on autopilot. And they von't tink anythink about this crate. Ve're a lot smaller than they're used to, eh?'

That made Anakin smile a little. True. There was no way even one full grown adult human could cram himself into one of these boxes…there was a certain advantage to being short. Not that he planned to stay that way. He had already grown several inches since he first came to the Temple. His plan was to be taller than Obi Wan by the time he was sixteen, and he was making good progress. A Jedi should be tall, like Master Qui Gon – no offense intended to present company, of course.

But as the time dragged by, and the confines of the shipping container grew stale and hot – despite the venting slats in one side – he decided that the only thing worse than enduring a boring hyperspace jump in a cockpit was enduring the same journey cooped up in a tiny crate. Nobody had ever warned him how much of his life as a Jedi would involve excruciating boredom.

"Patience, my boy," Even Piell reprimanded him. "Ve've got a bit of a vait."

Anakin stifled a groan. Maybe he should have gone back to Coruscant after all….but the thought of this alternative brought him up short in his mental complaining. Master Obi Wan was depending on him. He couldn't back out just because he was bored and uncomfortable. Master was very likely _more_ uncomfortable than he was…

"Master Piell?"

"Hm."

"Do you think…I mean, what do you think the Togorians do with prisoners?"

"I tink you shouldn't focus on that," Master Piell answered directly. "It isn't pleasant. Last time I paid them a visit, I had to leave vitout a 'saber, and vitout a left eye."

Anakin shuddered, squinting through the nearly complete blackness at the Jedi master's mangled face. "Were you a prisoner?"

"For a vile. But those terrorists made the mistake of underestimating the Force. So did I. Until I came to my senses."

Asking more seemed like an imposition. Anakin had learned quickly not to pry into the personal details of other Jedi's lives. Temple culture dictated that you only caught a glimpse of somebody else's memories or feelings when that individual felt like throwing you a scrap. And even then, it was better to pretend it hadn't happened. He drew his knees closer to his chest and tightened his arms about them. He already regretted the small glimpse into Master Piell's past…. And he tried to stop his racing imagination from supplying gruesome details on ObI Wan's behalf.

"Obi Van is a fighter," Master Piell told him. "Ve'll find him in one piece."

Anakin fervently hoped so.


	8. Chapter 8

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Gherru Rhakan made Anakin Skywalker look like a model of patient docility_._ Obi Wan wondered idly whether he would ever again feel frustration with his over-eager and short-tempered Padawan, after this stint as the Togorian's private tutor. Perhaps not. He could now easily imagine himself making it through the next ten years of Anakin's education with the sublime placidity of a cud-chewing nerf, whereas only two days ago he had been quite certain that the boy would drive him to a premature senility, if not straight to his funeral pyre.

As Qui Gon Jinn had told him so many, many times during his own apprenticeship, _focus determines reality._

Of course, Qui Gon had also often admonished him to curb his dark sense of humor, or at least the outward manifestation of it, if he wished to make it to his own Knighting ceremony intact; and that painstakingly acquired skill was serving him well in the current circumstance. He was careful _not_ to chuckle or so much as smile at the spectacle of the hulking Togorian warlord crouched in a diligent heap at one end of the arena, struggling- with dreadfully inconsistent results - to lift a small pile of rocks into the air. The rascal's fur was bristling with rage, and his huge shoulders were hunched into tight knots of effort. Some of the smaller stones trembled a little, while on occasion one or two of them might float a few centimeters off the dusty arena floor. The Force eddied complacently around them, a steady torrent of power left for the most part untouched and un-harnessed by the warlord's vast efforts.

Obi Wan's mind wandered back to his own childhood in the Temple. Memories before the age of four or five were indistinct for the most part, but he could recall with great pleasure the hours he had been allowed to play with his crèche-mates in the indoor gardens, often as not at the delightful and perennially beloved game of Flying Rocks. As the name implied, it was a childishly simple pastime, but at that tender age he had found it endlessly amusing. In fact, he had been tremendously good at it and had even once been disciplined – kindly – for some wanton damage wrought upon the garden by his overenthusiastic pursuit of this rambunctious hobby.

"Control," he advised his sullen new protégé. Rhakan merely growled some curse under his breath and carried on.

At last, the Togorian stood and kicked the pile of flat stones, scattering them across the arena floor in a fit of frustration. "You!" he roared, turning in his chosen mentor – one chained to the far wall hand and foot, an unusual arrangement in most classrooms across the galaxy. "Show me the secret!"

"The secret," Obi Wan informed him, lifting the stones back into a neat pile with a subtle manipulation of the Force, "Is _control._ You allowed your emotions entry, and they clouded your focus. The more frustrated you grew, the weaker your connection to the _prama_ became. It's that simple, really."

"You wish me to feel nothing, sorcerer? To be without passion?"

"That is the general idea, yes." He shifted his weight, leaning against the hard stone wall of this subterranean fighting pit, starting a new yamalsa centering exercise. The long morning may have been wearying for his captor, but it had afforded him extra time in which to work on his injury. He was almost ready…ready enough, at least…to make his polite and insincere apologies and depart from this place. He could feel his strength trickling back in due measure, the Force kindling strong within him.

The Togorian paced up and down before him, disgusted. "You wish me to feel no rage as I enter into battle with my foes?" he demanded, in tones of outraged disbelief.

"It can be done," Obi Wan assured him.

"That is an insult to one's enemy," Gherru Rhakan objected. "Battle is a sacred bonding of spirits. To strike without hate is like taking a mate without desire. Your people are bloodless corpses, lacking true vitality," he spat.

"Nonetheless, this is the way of _prama. _ I did not dictate its laws; I am merely its servant."

"You are _my _servant," the warlord corrected him, with a snarl. "And you will show me how it is that you hurl massive objects, so that I may accomplish this upon my enemies' bodies, crushing them like boats thrown upon the rocks."

Obi Wan shrugged. "There is no difference. In the _prama, _ size is of no consideration. The difficulty you experience lifting a heavy object exists in your own misconceptions. A truly powerful wielder of _prama_ could toss that boulder yonder as easily as I can lift these small stones."

Rhakan's massive hands curled into hard balls of plated knuckle and wiry hair. He trudged back to the center of the arena, hefted a rock the size of a large bread loaf in one huge paw. He chuckled a little, then – with the deadly accuracy of an expert hunter, threw the stone directly at the Jedi a few meters away.

It swerved off course and careened into the wall with a crack. Chips of plaster and stone drifted in its wake.

Obi Wan smiled thinly as the warlord laughed in delight. "Well done, magician! You can turn flying objects out of their path, too. I would learn this art from you as well!"

"You need to work on a more basic skill first," he murmured softly.

"What is this?" Rhakan demanded, a half-second before the stone came hurtling back at him, catching him in the midriff and sending him sprawling across the dusty floor with a snarling grunt.

"Getting out of the way," Obi Wan said.

The Togorian clambered heavily to his feet, gasping as he clutched at his ribs. He bared his double row of serrated teeth and approached, a white foam frothing over his skin – his species' equivalent of perspiration. "Jedi," he spat, thrusting his enormous head into Obi Wan's face, his eyes narrowing to predatory slats. "How dare you?"

"I thought you were a warrior," he responded, serenely. "Surely Gherru Rhakan does not snivel over such a trifling injury? There is no way to learn the art of martial combat without taking a few hits."

The warlord poked a finger hard into the Jedi's injured side. "As you know," he sneered. "It is I who have taught you a lesson in combat. Remember who is the superior fighter."

"You wish me to teach you how to use _prama_ to defeat your foes in battle….yet you have me chained here. How can I instruct you when I am so hampered?"

Rhakan began his pacing again, grumbling to himself in his own language. He made a full circuit of the arena and then returned to his former position, looming over the human dangerously. "What do you suggest, Jedi?"

"Later tonight, let us have, say, six of your best warriors here to help with the demonstration. I will show you what the _prama_ can accomplish in battle. You will leave me free, so that I can teach effectively. Surely with yourself and your fiercest guards present, there is no question of treachery. I give you my word of honor that I will not try to escape this arena."

The Togorian nodded slowly. "Yes. We will do this. And my warriors will be happy to meet you in a fight. They are eager to exact payment for their brothers and comrades whom you slew upon the Republic ship."

_Just lovely_. "I look forward to it," he replied.

* * *

><p>"How much longer are we gonna be stuck in here, master?"<p>

"Are you alvays such a nice boy, or do you misbehave ven you're at home?" Even Piell inquired sarcastically.

Anakin sputtered for a moment. "Can't we make them come faster – use the Force somehow?"

He could feel the dwarf master's eye boring into him in the pitch darkness. "Ve don't use the Force to do our bidding, Skyvalker. It's the other way around: ve do _its_ bidding."

"I thought we were trying to lure in some pirates so we could womp them and steal their ship," Anakin said, confusedly. That didn't seem like obeying the will of the Force- that seemed more like hard-core double-dealing skullduggery to him.

"The Force doesn't like pirates," Even Piell declared, with all the authority of the Council member he was.

Anakin wasn't going to contradict a member of the High Council, so he settled for squirming his body and contorting his limbs in to a more comfortable arrangement. "Master Obi Wan doesn't like them, either, I guess," he remarked.

"He's a smart boy. Dose Togorians are the scourge of this whole sector. I vouldn't be surprised if the Force decided to teach them all a vell-deserved lesson."

"So we're gonna womp the rest of them, too?" Anakin was beginning to think he could get used to this "will of the Force" idea after all. Master Piell made it sound much more intriguing than Obi Wan's usual lectures about focus, restraint, and wisdom.

"Ve're not vomping anyone, Padavan. Ve're collecting your master and taking a von-vay ticket back home. You can use the time ve've got vaiting here to think up your groveling apology to the Council and Obi Van. I hope you've got an inventive streak in there somevere."

"Um…yes, master." Fine. Master Piell could rub that in all he wanted- Anakin wasn't going to regret his decision. Not when he was about to rescue Obi Wan and get in some practice at womping space pirates. Maybe if he was heroic enough during this mission, the Council would ignore his disobedience and praise him instead. That had worked for him on Naboo. Blowing up the Trade Federation core ship had earned him a lot of respect. Ends outweighed the means, he figured. The Council would come around to his point of view in the end, wouldn't they?

At that moment, the shipping crate slewed to one side and scraped its way across the cargo hold as the decks tilted beneath them.

"Ah," Master Piell said. "Gravity mine. Now ve're getting somevere. Are you ready , my boy?"

Ankin nodded fiercely. He was ready, all right. Those Togorians were gonna regret taking his master, if he had anything to do with it. "I'm ready," he breathed.

"Good," Master Piell grinned. "I can't stand all this blasted vaiting."


	9. Chapter 9

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

Jedi Master Even Piell smiled in grim satisfaction as the Togorian pirates eagerly pilfered the case of Corellian brandy, setting it down in their own cargo hold with impressive care for beings of such gross stature and uncouth manners. They obviously didn't want to break the fragile contents. Beside him, the Skywalker boy was practically holding his breath with anticipation. He wondered whether the Padawan would pass out from lack of oxygen, and gave him a sharp prod with one foot to be sure he remembered to inhale.

Eventually the heavy footfalls and snuffling grunts of the Togorian native tongue died away, and the deck beneath them gave a familiar lurch as the pirate vessel got underway again.

"All right, Skyvalker," he said to his young companion. "Vat's dat saber of yours vorth, hm?"

"Uh…it's just a training saber, master. I haven't built a real one yet," the boy muttered, ashamedly. "But I can still fight! Master Obi Wan has taught me a _lot _ about fighting."

"Like ven not to," the diminutive Jedi growled. "You leave that part to me. I've got a score to settle vit these fellows."

"But…." Skywalker's words trailed off, but Even could sense the thought as plainly as a comet in a clear sky.

"Revenge is a state of mind," he told the boy succinctly. "Now: They say you are qvite the pilot. Is that true?"

"It is!" the boy supplied eagerly, without the slightest trace of humility or self-doubt. "I can fly anything."

"Good. Ve're going straight from here to the bridge. I'll handle the pirates; you take over the piloting."

The blonde child hesitated, gnawing on his bottom lip. "Uh…"

"Vat?"

"It's just….that's what my master said, too, and…that's when he…"

"Vo! Listen, my boy, I'm too old for that kind of vild heroics. Ve'll leave all the self-sacrificing nobility to Obi Van. Ve're just here to vomp pirates and steal their ship."

The Padawan grinned, his mood lightening the Force around them. "Yes, master!" he piped up, with enthusiasm.

Even pushed the crates seals aside and tumbled out onto the deck. Of course, the automated security cannon immediately locked on and targeted him; he pushed Skywalker back inside the relative safety of the container, deflected the first bolt off his saber, leapt clear of the second, and somersaulted straight into the next one's path, ricocheting it back into the cannon housing at close range. The small ceiling mounted weapon array exploded with an angry snap of circuitry. Bits of slagged plastoid dripped onto the decks.

He clipped his weapon back at his belt. "Vell? Vat are you vaiting for?" he called to the boy. The maintenance access hatch was directly overhead. The Force brought the panels down, leaving a very narrow gap into the tunnel of blinking lights and cables which comprised the guts and nerves of any starfaring ship like this. Little more than a closet to the Togorians, it was just wide enough to admit two compact fellows like himself and the Skywalker boy. "Up you go," he ordered.

Once the Padawan had executed a neat jump into the cramped space, Even followed. "Forvard ho," he commanded, and they began the crawl along the ship's length, navigating the claustrophobic shaft on hands and knees, and then on their bellies as the space narrowed even further where the drive housing demanded a constriction of the hull.

"Uuugh," the small human boy complained in a grating whisper. "I'm gonna get stuck!"

"Nonsense, boy. Keep movink. Ve're almost there."

* * *

><p>Obi Wan waited in the center of the dusty floor as Gherru Rhakan solemnly ushered his six finest, hand-picked warriors into the arena. They all bore vibroaxes and a variety of artistically serrated and curved knives strapped to their boots, belts, backs – any available space on their armored bodies, really. The smallest of them stood a good half-meter taller than the Jedi.<p>

"Now, sorcerer," the warlord demanded. "You will show to me the secret fire of _prama_ which grants victory in combat. My warriors are eager to prove you weak and unworthy." He ascended the steps to his private observation balcony, a jutting half-wall of stone carved in the arena wall's center.

The Togorian had not seen fit to provide _him_ with a weapon; but the oversight was not something he could focus on at present.

"Which of you is the best fighter?" he addressed the gathered Togorians. There was a stir among them, a murmur of resentment and doubt. Obi Wan waved one hand, and the axe of the nearest warrior slid sideways to impact his neighbor's armor with a dull thud. The victim snarled and grunted something in their native language.

Rhak'an stood impassively, waiting for the violence to begin.

Another subtle gesture, and one of the Togorians' razor-thin throwing knives unsheathed itself and planted its tip firmly in the toe of its owner's boot. A howl of rage ensued, and the injured knave's nearest comrade went flying under the impact of a savage blow. The remaining four spun on the spot, cursing and shouting.

Stones came hurtling through the air, striking heads, legs, chests. Dust rose in a billowing cloud and whipped at eyes, at the delicate tissues of nose and ears. The Togorians snarled and struck out savagely.

"The sorcerer, you fools!" Rhak'an fumed, his voice rising with outrage.

Obi Wan reached deeper into the Force, felt the pain-drenched minds of the warriors, their barely contained instinctive wrath, their small and malleable minds. They were indeed quite different from their leader. _Fight for your lives, _ he impressed upon them. _Fight, fight, fight._

It was what they wanted to do anyway. Like a dam giving way beneath the onslaught of a flood, the warriors unleashed their pain and terror upon one another, howling and cursing as they battered their fellows with all the strength of desperation. Rhakan' s restraining cries were of no effect; soon enough, another dozen, less seasoned guards had joined the fray, vainly trying to separate the flailing, bloody combatants from one another but only managing to enrage them further.

Obi Wan jumped clear, landing gracefully in the observation balcony behind the warlord.

Gherru Rhak'an seized him by the throat and pinned him against the wall. 'Treachery!" he spat, viscous saliva droplets spattering on the flagstones below. "You planned this."

A boot to the warlord's gut sent him stumbling back two paces. ObI Wan crouched, massaging his windpipe, watching the furious Togorian carefully. Sounds of battle raged below. "A demonstration," he insisted. "You have now seen how _prama_ can be used to defeat one's foes."

Rhak'an straightened, his eyes still glowing with distrust and anger. "You tell me that _prama_ is a tool of dishonorable trickery?" he growled. "This is not the Togorian way."

Careful, now. "You, Gherru Rhak'an, are more than your heritage," he said, bowing slightly. "You have been given the gift of _prama_ itself. If you wish to claim this birthright, you must take a step into a much wider world."

The Togorian drew in three heaving breaths, whirled to face the gruesome spectacle below. The fighting had at last subsided, leaving a wreckage of bodies and groaning casualties below. "So the _prama_ itself is treasonous. I shall remember this well," he muttered.

"I have kept my word of honor," the Jedi pointed out. "I have not tried to escape this arena."

Rhak'an glowered at him, the Force churning darkly with his displeasure.. "I still do not trust you," he hissed.

Obi Wan gazed at the carnage in the arena and hid his smile of satisfaction behind one hand as he stroked his thinly bearded chin. There would not be many sentinels on duty _tonight. _ The Force was with him.

* * *

><p>Anakin stopped when Master Piell tugged on his ankle. He craned his head over one shoulder and saw the small master give him a quick, fierce nod. The time had come.<p>

In a flash, Even Piell's lightsaber had penetrated the paneling beneath them and was carving a small hole. A blaster bolt pinged through the plastoid, sizzling past his face and slamming into the overhead circuitry panels with a deafening explosion, but the Jedi master didn't even twitch his long pointed ears. Instead, he thrust a hand out and sent the smoldering, red-edged panel flying down into the cockpit with violent force. There was a thud, a curse, and another wild blaster shot which ricocheted off the access tunnel's side.

Anakin's heart gave a jolt, but he was scrambling out of the shaft on Master Piell's heels, dropping onto the decks of the Togorian pirate ship's bridge in the middle of a pitched battle. He rolled beneath a console just as a vibroaxe smashed it to bits. Gasping, he slid between a pair of enormous booted feet and slid into the forward instrument panel. Something huge and black was coming at him, and on instinct he summoned the Force and hurled it backward. One body hit another, a saber blade screamed a high pitched note, there was a horrible smell of ozone and burning flesh.

"Vell done, my boy!"

Anakin scrambled into the pilot's seat, but had to duck as a Togorian's _arm_ came hurtling over his head and struck the forward viewport. _Poodoo! _His hands flew over the unfamiliar controls, sheer gut instinct leading the way.

Behind his back he heard the screams of pirates, the whirling discordant song of Even Piell's saber. Danger flared bright in the Force; he seized the yoke and slewed the whole ship wildly to one side. Bodies tumbled through the air; Master Piell's small frame flipped neatly in mid-flight, sprang off the roof, shot straight back over Anakin's head, blade carving a furious circle…

Anakin grimaced as another hideous shriek joined the war cries. Heart hammering, he righted the ship and opened the accelerators. They lurched forward, again sending heavy Togorians tumbling into the bulkheads. The Force seethed with violence and death…Anakin closed his eyes, flipped them over in a tight spiral, the whole lumbering ship straining and creaking. A Togorian slammed into the console, red-flecked foam spattering over the controls and Anakin's tunics. And then he slid down to the decks in a limp heap.

_Poodoo. _ There had been a deep, burning hole in the center of the Togorian's chest. Anakin frantically wiped his hands off, forced himself to keep flying. Master Piell's saber thrummed one last time, and then hissed sharply as he deactivated it.

Anakin kept his gaze straight forward. He knew what was lying all over the decks behind him. He swallowed. He had blown up a whole core ship before, he had scrapped droids and security weapons, he had seen Master engage in battle now and then….as a last ditch necessity….but this was something else. His stomach felt funny.

Part of him was excited. Part of him _liked _ it. And the other part was going to be sick all over the console.

"Keep flying, my boy," Master Piell grunted, kindly. Anakin heard the bridge doors sweep open, heard the scrape of armor against decking as the bodies were unceremoniously dragged through the hatchway and deposited in the corridor beyond. He kept flying. _Poodoo. Poodoo. _

He almost jumped out of his skin when the dwarfish Jedi placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Vell. You make a decent pilot, Skyvalker. Good vork."

Anakin nodded, and kept flying. The nav computer had the coordinates of the Togorian stronghold all programmed in . They were on their way to Obi Wan. That's all that mattered. He spared a fleeting glance at Master Piell, expecting to see hard lines of wrath drawing the scowl into even more severe lines.

But the master's one brown eye was soft with compassion. "You'll be all right, my boy," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

Gherru Rhak'an slept flat on his back, his huge limbs splayed at awkward angles over the entire expanse of the low sleep mattress in the center of his private chamber. A crudely carved fretwork of stone formed a natural skylight above, through which muted moonlight fell in a gentle haze, picking out the warlord's relaxed features in cold highlights. Clouds scudded across the luminary, carried on a cold wind.

Obi Wan felt the moist draught of air leaking through the open lattice. An atmospheric storm, just when he needed to fly. Of course. The very universe conspired against him when it came to piloting, but there was nothing to be done about it. A bit of lightning and some gale-force winds added a melodramatic flair to his planned exit, he supposed. Anakin would like that part of the story.

The thought of his doubtlessly anxious Padawan spurred him to action. Now or never. Most Rhakan's able-bodied guards were injured from the evening's ruckus; and the warlord himself was deep in an exhausted slumber after a day spent fruitlessly straining to accomplish feats of Force-manipulation he had never before attempted. His progress to the hangar bay should be unimpeded. And thanks to the Togorian's earlier "victory" in the contest of images, he had a fairly accurate idea not only where said hangar bay was located, but also the most expedient route to get there.

Only one thing was missing.

He knew where it was; after all, it was _part_ of him. The crystal called to him like a steady chime carried on the ethereal winds of the Force. The vile Togorian had stowed it under his own pillow, like some child's treasure hidden from adult sight. Obi Wan extended his hand, and very, very gently pulled the lightsaber from beneath Rhakan's head, bringing it across the room into his own own grip. He closed his fingers about the hilt. It felt…slightly different. He could always tell when someone else had touched it , which was next to never. Possibly Rhak'an had been idiotic enough to try to dissemble it – which would have resulted in his obliteration, but also spoiled a priceless artifact. Priceless to its owner, at least. He closed his eyes, weighed the saber in his hand. No, the heft was just right – and the sealed crystal chamber had not been tampered with. He must be sensing the Togorian's muddied Force signature, clinging slick to the polished hilt like pond scum.

It was childish, but he wiped the gleaming cylinder carefully on his tunic's hem before clipping it to his belt. The next order of business was the heavy collar about his neck. A judicious use of the Force broke the band apart. He caught the two halves before they clattered noisily to the floor and then made a deep bow to his host.

_Your hospitality has been a rare pleasure._

And he jumped, clear up to the high skylight, gripping two of the narrower stone ribs with his hands. Rhak'an still slept. Breathing out the persistent ache in his side, he pulled himself through the aperture, shoulders scraping the hard sides painfully. For once, he was thankful for his middling stature and size; Qui Gon , for instance, would simply never have fit through. Once atop the fretted roof, he had a good view of the fortress. Below this tower, the ramparts and courtyards were clearly picked out in moonlight. Deep shadows clung at the base of the walls. The easiest way to proceed would be across rooftops until he came to the central keep. The smaller ships were sheltered beneath its dome, in a cavernous hold.

When the chill wind clawed through his tunics, he wished for his cloak, but that had been taken from him and not returned. He slid cautiously down the curving tower roof, and dropped lightly over its edge onto a flat protruberance below. From here he launched himself to the next roof, a slanted affair overlooking the main courtyard. Below, two sentries marched on a narrow catwalk. He dropped to his belly and waited, the damp wind still piercing his bones with cold.

The Togorians crossed paths, turned, hesitated, and then made off in opposite directions again, their attention focused unfailingly below. Too easy. He set off again, crawling in a half-crouch along the lower edge of the roof, so as not to be outlined in silhouette against the sky. He came to the far edge.

A considerable gap stretched between this roof and the next stretch of wall, one crenellated with defensible ramparts and punctuated with heavy cannon for repelling a siege. He gauged the distance warily, pressing a hand against his tenuously healed injury. He could certainly make that leap under ordinary circumstances, but now…?

A sentry stopped directly beneath him and leaned against the building's mass, under the overhanging roof tiles. A thin spattering of icy rain rattled down out of the sky, drove into Obi Wan's skin. _Blast it. _ The obstreperous Togorian wasn't moving. He lay flat on the slippery roof another minute, them decided that he had been patient enough. After all, there was no Padawan here for whom to set a good example. He waved a hand at the far end of the catwalk, dislodging a loose piece of masonry with a loud scrape. The sentry jogged forward to investigate, and Obi Wan gathered himself and leapt.

He almost made it.

Feet just missing the edge of the far roof, he fell heavily onto the catwalk below, twisting hard to land in a sloppy crouch just in front of the startled sentry. The Togorian's mouth opened in a snarl of aggression, just before a Force –push sent him tumbling backwards over the ramparts and over the high wall. There was a short cry, muffled by the wind and rain, and a distant crunch. Then nothing.

Another long exhalation, releasing the sudden tang of death in the Force, and the renewed flare of pain in his side. He must be careful not to overdo it. There was still some distance to go. He pressed his back against the shadowed wall and waited for signs of another guard, but it would seem the stronghold was lamentably understaffed tonight, as he had predicted. Lightning blazed overhead, spilling harsh white over the whole scene, and then plunging it back into an inky darkness fraught with vibrant after-images.

He jumped up to the roof again, and continued his prowling journey over its uneven surface, now slick with rivulets of rushing rain. His tunics were soon soaked through, but he did not dare expend extra energy on shielding himself with the Force. Another wall. Another rooftop. The main hold. Hail replaced the rain, dancing noisily on the roof, stinging where it hit his face and hands. He crawled down the roof's outside edge, dropped from the eaves to the outer docking platform, nothing more than a narrow ledge overlooking an abysmal drop into a mountain valley below. A maglev field protected the hangar bay from the elements and traspassers. He could see the control panel on its other side.

Shivering, and leaving a decidedly undignified puddle at his feet, Obi Wan reached through the Force and found the simple control mechanism, the opening sequence. The shimmering blue energy barrier disappeared, and two guards in heavy armor promptly came running to see the source of the disturbance.

"Malfunction," one of them grunted.

"I smell an intruder," his cohort argued, taking a few steps out the door.

"_Sharrgha_," the first one cursed. "It's raining. Malfunction, I tell you."

But the naysayer would not be persuaded. He moved out onto the platform. Obi Wan waited, pressed flat against the wall, until the second Togorian had joined the first. It was a simple matter to seize them with the Force and slam their skulls together. The crack resounded in the valley below, and the two brutes slumped into pile of wet fur, senseless.

He was over the threshold in the next instant, eyes raking over the assembled spacecraft for anything remotely familiar. Pirates always had plenty of stolen merchandise to choose from. Ah – there – a Republic made two-passenger shuttle, with a hyperdrive. Perfect. He made a beeline for his chosen getaway ship, swiping his sopping mane of hair out of his eyes with one hand.

He was vaulting onto the cockpit canopy, just on the verge of wrenching it open with the Force, when the second guard contingent rushed into the hangar, axes and vibroblades rattling on their backs, blasters gripped in their hands. Their leader swiftly spotted him, yelled some order out in Togorian.

Obi Wan grinned, ripped the canopy open. They were far, far too late to stop him now. His saber was in his hand before the first shots were fired. He flicked the blade into life—

-and nothing happened.

The Togorian's bolts would have blown several holes straight through him had not his reflexes saved him. He backflipped off the ship, landed behind it on the deck, heart hammering and side screaming in protest at the sudden acrobatic exertion.

The Togorians thundered forward. He threw the first two into those behind, buying precious seconds. For a heartbeat he wondered whether the rain had shorted out the power cell in his saber – but that was _absurd._

A Togorian rushed him, swinging an axe. He dodged, and the vicious blow landed in the ship's forward landing prong, nearly severing it. A second guardsman came at him from behind, and he jumped back over the ship, twisting away from a pot-shot taken at him in midair. _Blast, blast, blast!_

He rushed the next assailant, kicked the blaster out of his hand, ducked beneath a savage blow, slammed his saber's pommel into the Togorian's jaw, and sent him careening into the wall. A blaster bolt singed his thigh, too close for comfort. He rolled away, beneath another ship, tried his saber again. Nothing.

He reached into the Force with everything he had and sent a starfighter skidding across the hangar, crashing into the opposite wall in a cacophony of sparks and shearing metal, taking two of the ferocious warriors with it.

Four more appeared in the doorway, flanking none other than Gherru Rhak'an himself. The warlord held up a fist, and his minions hesitated, their eyes never leaving the bedraggled Jedi in the center of the hangar.

Rhak'an chuckled nastily. "So, sorcerer, you thought to flee while I slept?"

Obi Wan shrugged. "I thought it was worth a try." Three more Togorians appeared, spread out in a widening circle. Ten. Against one. Without a saber. He exhaled sharply, willing the throbbing in his side to abate, the cold shiver running through his limbs to dispel.

Rhak'an thrust a large hand into a pouch at his side and withdrew a small object, which he held out upon his open palm. "It is you who taught me that the _prama_ itself is treasonous," he sneered. "Is this important to you?"

It was the lightsaber's power cell.

"I replaced it with a depleted one," the Togorian gloated. "I, too, can use trickery to vanquish my foes. You are a fine teacher, Jedi."

"And you are a fast learner," Obi Wan muttered, wryly.

"The Ancestors sent me a dream – a vision in the _prama- _ in which your fearsome light weapon pierced my flesh. But now, you see: I, Gherru Rhakan, can overcome even the _prama_ itself. Truly there is none who may oppose my will. Especially not you, sorcerer."

"No, apparently not," the Jedi grumbled to himself. This was a fine mess indeed. The warriors drew in closer on every side. "Shall we, ah, just return to your quarters and discuss this like civilized people?" he suggested.

The warlord's eyes slatted into cruel lines. The Force roiled with his displeasure. "It is my turn to teach _you_ a lesson," he declared.


	11. Chapter 11

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

They approached the planet at a reckless, headlong speed. Anakin waited for Master Piell to make some wry remark on his chosen piloting style, or to exhort him to be cautious, like Obi Wan almost certainly would have done in this circumstance, but the dwarf master seemed perfectly at ease, sitting in the co-pilot's seat with his short, booted legs propped up casually on the forward console.

The atmosphere was cloudy, as though a violent storm had just swept over the continent.

"Take her in but don't land vithin reach of their sensors," the Jedi master instructed. "Ve'll set down outside their territory and use von of the svoops in the cargo bay."

Anakin nodded, plunged toward the jagged, mountain-scarred earth, spotting a fortress built into a cliffside before looping backward almost forty klicks and setting down far to the east, behind a low rise of hills. The Togorian ship shuddered, its drives cooling with a deep-pitched whine and murmur. His hands shook as he shut all systems down. They were here. They were going to find Obi Wan. Any minute now.

Master Piell's stocky feet hit the deck. "It's night. Ve can get in and out before dawn. Now: I need your help, my boy. Can you sense your master right now?"

Anakin blinked. He was _worried_ about his master…but that wasn't quite the same thing. "What do you mean?"

Even Piell gripped his shoulder. "You're his Padavan. You should be able to feel him in the Force. Vat's going on in there, eh?" He gazed steadily into Anakin's eyes, the Force settling into a strange potential, like a skin stretched tight over one of the drums Tuskens used to send signals in the wasteland deserts on Tatooine. Anakin didn't really like the sensation, and he tried to squirm away, but the Jedi master's hard fingers were digging into his shoulder, and then…he felt it.

He _could _sense something ….familiar. He gasped a little. _Wizard!_ He could feel Obi Wan across all this distance, just as though he were right here next to them- except…"Oh!" he exclaimed.

And then, "Oh no! NO! That's bad, really bad, we've got to go, I think something's really really wrong. I don't feel so good…"

"Vo, vo, easy," Master Piell was saying, holding onto him so he didn't collapse face-first onto the stony ground.

Anakin squeezed his eyes shut, fought off vertigo, ran trembling fingers through his short hair. "Oh.." he groaned. "This is _not good."_

But Master Piell was busily unloading the swoop from the stolen pirate ship's cargo bay. He pushed the hovering vehicle down the ramp and stopped beside Anakin. The repulsors kicked up a gentle swirl of dust, which made him sneeze.

"Breathe, my boy. Ve need to know _vere_ they've stowed him. Try again."

Anakin shook his head, blinking away tears from the dust and from the awful melange of pain and sickness that seemed to echo his own senses like the voices in Beggar's Canyon. "I don't want to," he pleaded. "He's in trouble. It _hurts."_

"Skyvalker!" Master Piell was already straddling the swoop's seat. For the first time since Anakin had met him, the scarred side of his face seemed more real and alive than the soft, undamaged one. "Dis is not about _you!"_

The words were a thunderbolt, a sharp and stunning blow. Once, when Anakin had been quite small, his mother had dealt him a swift smack to the backside, in a moment of frustration. He had been so stunned that he had not even cried. He had simply stood there, clutching his stinging buttocks, open-mouthed, too surprised to think or feel. Shmi had never done that again, but he still remembered. It had meant more to him than any of Watto's beatings or the other deprivations imposed by the slave-drivers and sellers.

"Get up here," Master Piell ordered. Anakin stumbled onto the swoop behind the small master, hiccupping a little.

"I'll try again," he said. "I'll…I'll find him."

"Good boy." The implacable scowl was gone now, the kind and humorous sparkle of humor back in its place. "Ve'll come in under those valls and climb up into the main hold. Vonce ve're inside, you'll locate Obi Van in the Force. Then you'll find a ship. There vere several docked up on the observation tower ven ve flew over. I'll collect your master and meet you."

Anakin nodded, holding tight to Master Piell's back as they zoomed over the uneven landscape at a terrifying speed. "I can do it," he promised. He could do it for his master – no matter the price. After all, this wasn't about _him._

* * *

><p>"Arrogant slave!" Gherru Rhakan's voice snapped like a whip, taut fury drawing the Force into painful tension, a hot lashing deep in the gut. "In there!"<p>

The Togorians wasted no time in obeying, nor did they spare their prisoner any pain. Hard fists and boots crashed into whatever stretch of muscle or bone they could reach, and one of them made sure to slam the Jedi's head backward against the cell's wall with a sharp crack. They shackled him to the cold stone and withdrew, slinking back into the dungeon's narrow corridor with cold sneers plastered on their ugly faces. The last one made off with his 'saber in his clumsy, battle-marred hand.

Obi Wan coughed up some blood, and made sure to spit it out on Rhak'an's boots, which remained solidly fixed in the center of his field of vision. His teeth did seem to be all in order, which was a small blessing. He flashed them at the Togorian in a sardonic grin. "Had I known that I haunt your dreams, I would have made sure they came true."

The warlord hissed and drew nearer, seizing a handful of hair and yanking hard, until they were eye-to-eye. "Insolence will not save you from my judgment," he threatened. "I gave you due warning not to attempt treachery. I, Gherru Rhak'an, keep my word."

"Oh, well, if this is a _gentlemen's_ disagreement, then I'm sure-"

The Togorian's fist planted itself in his belly, cutting off both breath and the remainder of the jibe.

When his diaphragm stopped spasming, Obi Wan drew in a shaking breath. Center. Center. The Force. He was shivering like a wet akk – little wonder, since he was playing the part in terms of both dampness and general dishevelment– and his side was cramping with vibrant pain. The little tussle following his discovery in the hangar bay must have pulled something open again. He certainly wasn't having the most brilliant day of his career.

Gherru Rhak'an, meanwhile, was working through a tedious monologue. The poor thing likely had very little opportunity to declaim before an audience with any more wit than a sun-stroked bantha, and his oratory style manifestly suffered for lack of practice. When the warlord had finished a tedious enumeration of his own virtues and conquests, and his high destiny as ruler of the far-flung stars etc., etc., he unsheathed one of his ceremonial shivs from its thin scabbard at his belt.

Obi Wan tensed, guessing all too easily what came next. _Oh, for the love of… _Definitely not his most brilliant day. At all.

The Togorian made a great show of coating the wicked blade with a sticky substance contained in a leathern bottle strapped on his sash beside the other knives. "This," he explained, "Is _Uzzag-nar'akk, _ the perfume-of-vengeance. I have anointed this blade just for you, sorcerer."

_Perfume of vengeance?_ That was a new one. "Poison." He preferred a less florid and convoluted communication style.

Rhak'an loomed over him. "Tonight, Jedi, you will suffer the deepest torment. And tomorrow, when you grovel at my feet and beg for swift death, I shall slay you by my own hand and drink your life blood in the proper ceremony, And in this way, I shall take your _prama_ into myself and bring it under my dominion."

"The only difficulty with that charming proposition is this: I can't teach you _anything_ if I'm dead."

But Rhak'an was past reason. "Your _prama_ is not the same as mine," he mused. "I think your power and mine are at war. And that I will grow in wisdom and skill not by heeding your foolish teachings, but by conquering your _prama_ and making it subject to my own. I thank you for leading me to this insight."

Obi Wan wasn't sure _what_ the proper diplomatic response to this insanity might be. Apparently he still had much to learn.

Rhak'an lifted the shiv – and Obi Wan gathered the remnants of his Force-given strength to throw him clean into the opposite wall. The Togorian stumbled upright, howled in rage. He made a fist, choking off the Jedi's breath in his throat. Through a red haze, Obi Wan slammed Rhak'an into the wall again, grunting with the effort. The Force shimmered, twisted.

The warlord bounded forward, gasping, his choke-hold breaking as he surged forward. "I am Gherru Rhak'an, lord of _prama, _" he roared.

"You are lord of your own delusions," Obi Wan scoffed. The Force trembled, faded away. He was spent.

The shiv slammed home, ripping into the same place it had been buried already. The delicately knit flesh erupted into fire as the thin blade pierced through, scraping raw along his bottom rib, withdrawing in a second flash of agony. He heard his own cry as though from a far distance, barely felt the ground rush to meet him as his bonds were released.

Gherru Rhak'an laughed heartily in delight as he exited, slamming the door closed behind him. His resonant voice echoed down the passageway, sadistic pleasure spreading like a crimson pool in the splintered, blackening Force.


	12. Chapter 12

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

"He's…he's in a dungeon," Anakin Skywalker whispered. "Right below us. Far down. Underground, I think. It's..cold, and dirty. And …the floor hurts."

"Dis way." Even Piell continued crawling through the attic space beneath the Togorian fortress' wide roof. The ancient building was a newtwork of crawlspaces, venting shafts, primitive chimneys, and gaps between older and newer portions of the architecture – a regular womprat's nest of twisting passages and byways. He and the Skywalker boy had encountered no difficulty infiltrating the stronghold. Now they merely needed to navigate its complex innards without detection.

"A little further. Then you go up to the roof and find us a ship – ve've got no time to backtrack to the other von. Vonce the alarm is rasied, ve need to make a hasty retreat."

The Padawan nodded, following doggedly behind him as they pushed their way through the dusty labyrinth. The Force illumined their path, warned of sentries and wakeful Togorians below, urged them to greater speed. All was not well.

"Master Piell!" The boy's panicked voice cut through the inky dark, lacing the Force with white fire. "I can't feel him anymore! What's happening?"

"Shush, shush, Skywalker." Master Evan Piell crawled back along the ventilation shaft until he was nose to nose with the blond-headed Padawan. "Losing your head vill not help your master."

"He's in _real _trouble," the boy whimpered, chewing on his lip in an effort to retain control. His blue eyes shone faintly in the dark shaft.

"Vell, yes – or ve vouldn't be here, vould ve?"

Anakin Skywalker's fingers scrabbled against the dust of the hard floor. "I want to come with you."

Evan Piell shook his head. "No! Listen to me, Padavan. You need to find that ship and get up to the observation deck. Vithout a fast transport, ve are going nowhere."

The young boy nodded his head, eyes glinting with unshed tears. Panic was clawing at the boy's innards – it was clear on his face. "Yes, master. I'll get it. I just…what if he's…if he's not…?"

The tiny Jedi master squinted balefully at the fearful boy. "There is no vat if. Ve deal vith each situation as it comes. Now: do as I say. Your master's life depends on you finding us a vay off this rock."

Skywalker seemed to understand that much. He nodded, a new flare of certainty warming the Force between them. The boy took the right hand turning, crawling swiftly and surely away toward the ducts above the hangar bays. His technical skill was astounding for someone his age; he would be able to achieve his objective, whatever the obstacles. Even had his own task.

He scooted on hands and knees along the disused shaft until he came to a place where the system had been sealed up, probably to prevent infestations of native rodents. His lightsaber burned a neat hole through the triple reinforced durasteel, and he cautiously slid his body through the gap, taking care not to touch the fused edges. Now he was in a newer vent system. Letting instinct guide him, he passed several branches and openings, and then kicked away the grill of the next opening on his left.

The Togorian security guard posted on duty did not even have time to gasp out a warning before his head rolled to the floor, severed by a lightsaber blade.. Even Piell squinted at the massive, armored body and rummaged for the cell keys. He took the security coder and the comlink, and edged round the door. Two other sentries were posted in the hall, outside a single door. Piell pressed the comm. switch on the fallen guard's link.

"EH?" the sentry answered.

"You vant to find some food and take a rest," the Jedi master spoke, allowing the persusive power of the Force to saturate his words. "Leave your companion on vatch and go to the upper levels."

There was a short muttered conversation outside the cell doors, and then one of the sentries slunk off in the direction of the heavy lift. The dwarf Jedi master pulled his hood over his face and approached the remaining sentry.

"Huh?" the hulking figure exclaimed, directly before a boot connected with his head, sending him crashing senseless into the heavy door behind him.

Even slipped the security coder into the slot and keyed for entry. The door slid open.

"Ah. Obi Van," the Jedi Master sighed.

The young knight rolled over halfway. He groaned. "What took you so long?"

Evan Piell's hard, strong fingers searched for injuries. There were many. "No binders?" he asked, puzzled. The cell was dank, the Force muddy and disturbed. "Vat's keeping you here, eh?" He shoved the younger Jedi into a sitting position, mindful of the bruises and cuts. Blood spread in a disturbingly wet and vibrant pool along his flank.

Obi Wan let out a long breath. "Poison," he spat. "…Sick." His eyes drifted closed, even as Piell seized his shoulders and shook him back awake.

"Stay vit me, Obi Van." Even found a compact pressure patch in his belt pouch – hardly enough to deal with the injury, but all he carried – and slapped it into place over the oozing wound with brusque and skillful fingers.

"Arghh! …_Blast it_ to the nine hells…master…"

"Dat's enough. Ve're leaving now. Come on. Stand up . "

Kenobi gasped as he climbed to his feet. Even peered out the cell door; the other guard had yet to return. He dragged the limp form of the sentry into the cell and closed it again, then led the way back down the dim corridor to the room he had used as entry point. The younger Jedi followed, hand trailing along the wall for support.

"Up you go," Master Piell commanded, pointing to the grill opening above. "There's no other vay, so no griping about it."

Obi Wan stumbled across the room, and tore open a safe locker with the Force. He snatched his lightsaber from its confines. A fierce smile lit his features and he leapt for the opening overhead, managing only to grab its edges with his hands. Master Piell gave him a strong Force-push, shoving him through the opening, and then followed himself, rolling into the tight confines of the vent system.

"Obi Van. Ve must keep moving."

The young Jedi was on his side, heaving in shallow breaths. Pain warped the Force around them. "Master.." he sighed. "Not ….griping…but.."

Master Piell lifted his shoulders and pushed him up, onto hands and knees. "Follow me," he ordered. "That's an order straight from the Jedi Council. You may not fail. This is too important. A life is at stake. Yours."

Kenobi gritted his teeth and nodded. Even could hear him shuffling behind him as they backtracked through the maze of tunnels, as the alarm was raised and the fortress set into a commotion searching for the escaped prisoner. The network of shafts twisted and wound its way through the ancient building. They came to the straight vertical maintenace shaft which would lead to the rooftop observation deck. The Jedi master's comlink chimed, a coded signal. Skywalker had found a ship and was ready.

"Ve need to get up this ladder," he told Kenobi. "You go first – I'll vatch your back."

But the younger Jedi collapsed against the wall, face as white as death. Even seized his arms and pulled his weight over his own shoulders, but found the narrow space too small to fit both of them. He dropped his burden and grabbed the man by the shoulders again.

"Obi Van. You must climb. Climb or die. Now."

"Master Piell…..Just go. Leave me. I can't do it."

"Vat? Dat's bantha-chisszk. Get going."

But Kenobi merely shook his head weakly. "Tell Anakin….tell him that…" He closed his eyes, a long breath escaping between his teeth in a rattling hiss.

"Tell him yourself, Obi Van. I'm not a courier service."

The young knight merely grimaced and slumped further against the wall.

Even shook him mercilessly. "No you don't!. You are climbing that ladder now. Your Padawan vill never get over it if you don't."

Obi Wan made a wretched sound and hauled himself into the narrow opening, laying hands on the first rungs. He dragged himself upward, each successive effort eliciting a stifled cry. Even followed below, listening to the sound of probe droids humming down the shaft system behind them. "Faster!" he shouted.

The first droid emerged into the narrow aperture below them. There was barely room to maneuver a saber, but Even managed to slice it in two. "Go!" he urged his companion, "Ve've got company!"

A bright surge of light in the Force, and they had reached the opening. Even deflected an energy bolt back into the next pursuing droid and slammed the maintenance shaft hatch shut, using his saber to weld the edges shut. Small footsteps pattered across the gravel of the observation deck.

"Master!" Skywalker's young voice cracked.

Master Piell grabbed the boy by the collar, hauling him upright, tearing him away from Obi Wan. "Get to the ship – pilot us out of here – there's no time, Padavan!"

The blond haired child glared at him. Even glared back , his fixed scowl more terrible than ever. "Obi Wan!" the child yelled at him, tears running down his dirty cheeks, anger twisting in the force.

"He'll be fine! The ship!"

Anakin Skywalker pelted for the boarding ramp, and the flare of the engines lit the dark platform. Even thrust hands beneath Obi Wan's shoulder blades and hauled him into the ship just as they lifted off. The ramp closed and sealed behind them as a horde of Togorians appeared on the rooftop, armed with blaster rifles. The shots sizzled and rebounded off the small craft's shields.

They rose and twisted through the atmosphere, Skywalker's impossible, precocious flying skills vastly outmatching the automated defense systems. On the deck behind the cockpit, Obi Wan groaned and curled miserably on his side. "Hate flying…"

"That's too bad, Obi Van. We're flying, like it or not. Stop griping"

"..Not griping…." The injured Jedi writhed on the deck, one hand clutching hard at his bloody side. "Oh, _Force,"_ he breathed out, between ragged inhalations.

Master Piell pressed a hand to the Obi Wan's forehead. They had no medical supplies on board. The flight to the nearest Republic –controlled outpost or cruiser might take hours. He summoned the Force and sent a powerful sleep compulsion to the younger man. He felt the shivering limbs go limp, the frantic breath calm and slow itself, and he let his hand drop away.

"You'll be fine, my boy. You'll be fine."


	13. Chapter 13

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

The stolen ship reverted into realspace three times consecutively, after completing a short five-minute jump. Anakin wrestled with the unresponsive hyperdrive, but despite his best efforts, the Togorian vessel remained obstinately uncooperative.

Master Piell returned from the aft maintenance bay with a look of disgust written on his uneven features. "Vell," he snorted derisively. "Leave it to pirates to use anti-theft measures on vat they've stolen. Dere's an override circuit on the field stabilizers." He tossed a magnetic micro-spanner toward the ceiling, where it clamped to the metal with a sharp clack.

"I could prob'ly remove it," Anakin offered. He could fix anything.

"Vitout blowing us to smitereens? Ve'll have to land somevere. Mucking around vit the stabilizer array in mid-flight is suicide, my boy."

Good point. Anakin twisted his mouth to the side. Landing somewhere would mean another delay. "What about my master?"

Even Piell jerked his head in the direction of the hold, his black topknot swishing with the motion. "You go keep an eye on him. I'll find us a safe spot to set down. Ve'll call for an emergency medical team to meet us there."

Anakin slipped out of the cockpit into the rear compartment. He hunched against the bulkhead, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shins. Obi Wan was still lying there, looking far too ashen and limp. Looking a lot like Master Qui Gon had looked, laid out on his funeral pyre, on that horrible evening in the palace at Theed.

Nobody could kill a Jedi. Master Qui Gon had said that he "only wished that were true". Now Anakin wished it were true, too. He couldn't lose his master, because without Obi Wan he would again be in freefall, a discarded remnant of fate, a Chosen One that nobody had really chosen. Master Piell was trying his best – Anakin had faith in the dwarfish master's good intentions – but …_what if it wasn't enough?_ What if they had been too late, and when they arrived back on Coruscant, it was only to attend another funeral?

After a short interval, Master Piell joined him, leaving the ship on autopilot. He stood for a moment, gazing down on the boy crouched in a tight ball against the plastoid interior wall. His one good eye softened slightly in sympathy, while his ruined one was frozen in its perpetual scowl of disapproval. He was like the Force itself: nurturing and harsh, merciful and ruthless. It was a strange face, a duality inscribed in living flesh. Anakin shuddered.

"Skyvalker," the diminutive Jedi ordered. "Vatch your emotions. They're fair veather friends, at best."

"Yes, master." It sounded sullen, even to him, but he really didn't care.

"Sulking von't help matters," the tiny master grunted. "Make yourself useful, boy. Lie down here. You're hothead enough to keep two people varm."

The words were harsh, but there was a gleam of kindness beneath the curt tones. Anakin obediently curled upon the hard, cold deck, shimmying as close to Obi Wan as he could, ending up with his master's head tucked under his chin. He could feel the flutter of faint breath against his tunics, hot-damp on his collarbone. He could smell dirt and blood. Obi Wan's hair was sun-bleached to gold at the tips, like Anakin's. It was dirty and hung in heavy strands against his skin. There was the gritty white film of dried sweat clinging to his face in delicate patterns, crumbling where streaks of fresh moisture carved channels through the detritus. There was a sticky place behind one ear, where clotting red trickled down to smear the filthy tunic's collar. A pulse beat throbbed alarmingly fast against Anakin's chest.

Even Piell efficiently tucked his cloak and Anakin's around the pair of them, cocooning them together in a bundle. It felt odd: a little like Mom cuddling him as a small boy on Tatooine, on a cold desert night while the wind howled outside their slave shelter; but also a bit too much like the time he had found and tried to save a half-crushed krayt hatchling. He had cradled the pathetic soft-scaled form in his hands, wrapped it in strips of linen torn from his worn slave tunic, tried to soothe and nurture the trembling body back into vitality. But it had died in the end, despite all his attempts to fix it.

"I'm scared," Anakin confessed, his voice a whisper as cold and hard as the unyielding and uncomfortable deck.

To his surprise, Master Piell didn't explode into a reprimand. His long ears waggled slightly as he shook his head. "He's not vorried about himself, so vy should you be?" he said.

Anakin nodded, though he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

"Stay there," Even Piell commanded, and returned to the cockpit.

Anakin stayed. He stayed until tears came, and rolled down his cheeks, and then dried to a sluggish trickle and a hiccupping glitch in his throat. He stayed until one of his arms and his left side were numb from lack of circulation. He stayed until the too rapid rise and fall of breath against his chest and belly, the gentle warmth radiating between them and trapped beneath the two tightly wrapped cloaks, lulled him into a doze, and then into a half-dream, and finally into a deep and exhausted sleep.

* * *

><p>Gherru Rhak'an howled in rage and throttled the messenger with the power of the seething <em>prama, <em> the red fire flooding in his veins. How could it be _possible? _ How could the sorcerer have managed such a feat – when Rhak'an had left him, he was writhing on the floor of a dungeon cell, bleeding out his life slowly in the throes of the warlord's ceremonial poison and a deep knife wound. Even a magician of his power could not have overpowered the guards, escaped, found his way to the upper observation deck and then flown away.

The body of the unfortunate messenger sprawled on the flagstones at his lord's feet. Rhak'an kicked it aside. He was lord of his clan, and lord of _prama. _ He would not tolerate such an insult, and surely the treasonous, lying _prama, _ which even the wizard had admitted took no sides and was a tool of betrayal and deception, would help him.

Before, he had glimpsed the future and the far distant present in dreams, slivers of insight granted by the Ancestors. But the Jedi sorcerer had shown him something better – had taught him to seek stillness within and to listen to _prama _ at times of his own choosing, as though it was a voice always whispering. He did this now, crouching upon the hrad floor as he had seen the Jedi do, centering his breath on the one thought of revenge.

And the _prama _ showed him things. At first he did not understand, but as he remained sitting, his hackles rising in anticipation, his nostrils flaring wide with exhilaration at this new vista of experience, the meaning became clearer. The _prama_ here, in his stronghold, rippled strangely, much as it did around the Jedi. Only now there were the echoing disturbances of others… of newcomers like the escaped prisoner.

And Rhak'an understood. The magician had been aided. By other Jedi. Like womprats , they had wormed their way into his fortress without detection and assaulted the guards, stolen a ship. The Togorian's lips curled in a sneer of distaste. No Togorian would ever rescue a fellow who had fallen into enemy hands: those weak enough to be caught without claiming for themselves a warrior's death did not deserve to be snatched from the hands of punishment. But the ways of the Jedi were strange to him, their customs exceedingly dishonorable. They fought without hatred, disdained to take life-mates, hoarded no wealth, and believed that the strong must serve the weak. To such delusional fools, the idea of saving one already proved worthless to the clan might also seem somehow wise or good. It did not matter; he knew only that it was so.

He stormed through the corridors of his stronghold, disgusted at the sniveling incompetence of his underlings. Fools and weaklings, they deserved nothing more than the life of servitude they lead. Gherru Rhak'an would show them this day, once again, why he was lord of the clan, that nobody had any right to rob him of his war prize and dishonor him. He would hunt down _all _ the Jedi, and slay them, and mount their heads beside the desiccated skulls of the other traitors outside the main gates.

The _prama _ proved its fickle nature then, for rather than helping its self-proclaimed Jedi servant, veiling and protecting him, it surged to Rhak'an's aid, its black-crimson fire quickening images in his mind – places where the stolen ship had been, the planet toward which it even now limped like a maimed warrior dragging across a bloodied battlefield. The _prama _ did not pour pity and leniency into Rhak'an's breast, but kindled sparking anger into a wrathful flame, a beacon of hatred, calling him toward his foes. This _prama_ was dark, and powerful, and ever-moving, hypnotic in its coiling energy. It swelled within him, filled the longing which had first driven him to seek the Jedi.

And Rhak'an knew that at last he had found the answer, and the portal to true greatness, the molten river that would slake his thirst for power and knowledge. So long deprived of his birthright, cruelly orphaned from his own destiny, he knew that now at least he had come into his own. And the _prama, _ dark and cruel, laughed around him, wild with vengeance and delight.

His bird-of-prey starfighter lifted into the dawn-streaked sky and sped away, toward his distant and stranded prey.


	14. Chapter 14

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter14<strong>

The Force was disturbed; and so Obi Wan awoke with a start, cold warning thrilling down his spine.

"Obi Van." Even Piell's mangled face swam into view, large ears and dark topknot blurring at the edges, but baleful visage clear enough to reveal that he, too, felt the danger looming near. "Velcome back to the land of the living."

"Ah…." He managed to say, hoping this would suffice as greeting. The imbalanced Force flooded through him in swelling waves, along with fresh pain and nausea. The combination was a bit overwhelming. And there was a mysterious soft weight pressed against him, a limp bundle of warm breath and bony, protuberant limbs. He shifted away from the odd lump, sending his various injuries into hysterical protest. "….._Blast!"_

"Dat's enough griping," Master Piell added.

Obi Wan cautiously slid one hand to the side, touched… "Anakin!" he exclaimed, jolting into further wakefulness and hissing as he rolled halfway over to stare at his Padawan, sound asleep on the deck, wrapped in a rumpled Jedi cloak.

"He vasn't invited, but he came anyvay," the Jedi master explained tersely.

That elicited a groan. Anakin, Anakin, ….when would the boy learn to obey orders? Obi Wan cringed inwardly. The Council was going to have his hide. He sucked in a deep breath and gritted his teeth, attempting to rise – but Even Piell's hand pushed him down again.

"You're not going anyvere, my boy. Stay here vit that Padavan of yours – I'll go see vat's brewing outside."

Master Piell disappeared down the boarding ramp, his shadow lengthening across the bare stretch of rock which served as makeshift landing pad. Obi Wan had no idea what planet or system this might be, nor why they had made this unexplained detour; but he had a fair notion what might be approaching them like a storm over the horizon. He could feel the hungry, predatory malice in the Force – the savage pride and lust for power. It was all too familiar to him now; his side throbbed painfully, in synchrony with the driving beat of Rhakan's wrath echoing in the plenum.

He struggled onto his knees, cursing under his breath. Anakin slept on, apparently oblivious to the danger closing in on them. The boy was never greatly bothered by danger – indeed, he seemed to crave it, to flirt with the darkness at its edge. He feared neither injury, nor the displeasure of his superiors, of any naysayer who told him he _could not, should not._

"You shouldn't have come, Padawan," he chided the sleeping boy. There were tear tracks running down Anakin's pale face- had he been _weeping_ again? Since coming to the Temple, he had certainly learned to restrain his all too frequent displays of passionate feeling – but Obi Wan suspected that he did not truly release his emotions so much as bottle them up, to ferment in the dark places of his psyche, until they had undergone some alchemical transformation. And what the end product might be, he could not and did not wish to guess. He ran a hand through the boy's short hair, waking him as gently as possible.

"Hhhmph?"

"Anakin. Wake up. You need to wake up, Padawan."

Blue eyes squinted at him confusedly for a moment, and then the boy was jumping to his feet. "Master! I was so worried! I thought you were going to …I'm so glad we found you and we got away and we're going home." Anakin assaulted him, wrapping arms around him in a painful embrace, then stepping back with a small gasp. "You're really bleeding a lot," he frowned, his mouth forming a tiny grimace of distaste at the smears of red now staining his own tunics. "We need to get to a medcenter _now._ Master Piell said –"

"There's no time for that." He took a long moment to steady himself before continuing. "Why are we here? Shouldn't we be going somewhere?"

Anakin's face fell. "Uh…no. Not really. The stabilizers are rigged. I don't think we can go anywhere fast."

_Oh dear._ "I see." The reinforcing buttress embedded in the bulkheads was a convenient hand-grip; he rose shakily to his feet, but the support did not prove sufficient for long. Almost immediately he was sliding back to the deck again. "Anakin. There is an enemy approaching. Let Master Piell deal with him…don't try anything…stupid." He had to choose words economically, for fear of passing out before he finished. He willed Anakin to understand the danger.

"Don't worry, master," his young apprentice assured him fiercely. "I'll protect you."

_No no no no no! _But he had to settle for a weak shake of the head. When would the boy learn to listen? His heart sank; his side burned with pain; and the Force warped and twisted into a black knot as the distant whine of a ship's down-cycling drives penetrated the hull.

Gherru Rhak'an had arrived.

* * *

><p>Even Piell had faced Togorians before. He had faced madmen before. He had faced maddened Togorians before. After all, he was a Jedi master, and in his late prime just a bit older than the most hale and hearty human had ever lived. He had been about the galaxy a bit, and seen a few things. But a maddened Togorian warlord reeking of the Dark Side, exuding it in palpable waves of malice, was something new to him.<p>

It took him one second to determine that the ship descending a stone's throw away from their own stolen vessel was _not_ the anticipated Bograashi medcenter shuttle; and it took one more second after that to determine that this was a situation calling for what generations of Jedi had given the droll nickname "aggressive negotiation."

The warlord surged forward, across the dry plateau, a vibroaxe in one gauntleted hand, a collection of long-handled throwing knives – the Togorian honor-shivs, marks of rank and battle prowess- bristling out of a wide sash, the braided _kazhan _ or record of kills, every thread of massive twisted rope representing a foe felled by the bearer's own hand. Rhak'an's was a veritable tapestry of colors, the loose ends fluttering at his greave-clad knees. He stopped short of the Jedi master waiting to greet him, and guffawed softly, a rumbling cascade of notes issuing from deep in his chest.

"So. This is what the Jedi send to oppose Gherru Rhak'an. A maimed _troll."_

Even Piell planted his short legs firmly at shoulder's width, crossed his arms over his chest. "I tink it's time somevon cut you down to size, pirate."

The Togorian snorted in contempt. "Where is the other Jedi, little stump? Has he bled his life back into _prama_ yet, or does he still suffer? He is my war-prize and I have come to claim his lifeblood as my drink of victory. I shall slay those who oppose me."

The Jedi's saber was in his hand and flaring to life before the Togorian had even finished his speech. "Dat's vat you think." He flourished the blade in warning. "You've got ten seconds to get your ugly backside out of my sight. Unless you vant me to lop it off your neck. Dat's your last varning."

Rhak'an's infuriated howl rang in the cold air. "You insolent stunted fungus! I shall _crush_ you to a pulp!" He sprang forward, weapon raised, the Dark seething about him, spattering bloodlust and vengeance in an ethereal halo around his hulking figure.

Even Piell met the attack head on, saber slashing upward to meet the axe's blade at an anlge. The shock of the impact sent him sliding backward, his weapon slamming into the dusty soil beside the vibro-axe, but the blow went wide. Even's saber spun, faster than the warlord could pry his huge weapon out of the gritty earth, carving a searing line across the Togorian's knees. The thick armor saved the Togorian's legs from amputation, but the burning line where the saber struck glowed a lurid red-orange. The pirate howled in pain as the armor melted into his flesh.

Even leapt, dodging the next sweeping strike, flipped and kicked Rhak'an in the teeth he turned, landed in a low crouch and ducked beneath the next strike, slashing a burning line upwards along the warlord's belly, severing the bright sash and scoring another deep smoldering line up his armored torso.

"Foul runt!" Rhak'an screamed, and lifted his left hand. Even felt the Dark seize and fling him into the unforgiving rock, the power of the Togorian's hatred slamming into him like an invisible fist. He sprawled, breath leaving him in a grunt. Rhak'an fell like a hawk, the deadly vibroaxe hurtling downward to cleave his foe in half.

The Jedi master twisted away at the last moment, reversed and cut through the haft, separating blade from handle. The Togorian roared, seizing two shivs and lunging in for the kill- but Even had already rolled between his legs and sprang into attack, carving another burning slash across the warlord's hind-end, the slagging armor dripping molten bits onto the earth. With a renewed howl of rage, Rhak'an whirled, raising his hand again, the Dark flickering wrathfully about him.

Even met the assault with his own wall of Force power, and explosive collision of energies which sent them both flying backward – Rhak'an in the direction of the Jedi's ship, Even across the rock strewn plateau.

Writhing in pain as his armor fragmented into hot melting shards which stuck to his fur and flesh, Rhak'an sprang up again, calling out a terrible curse in his native tongue. He pounded toward the ramp of the stolen vessel, thin knife clutched in his massive hand. Even lunged forward, covering the space between them in mighty leaps - but too late.

Anakin Skywalker appeared in the open hatchway, training saber hissing to life in his small hand, running full tilt toward the approaching warlord. The Padawan sprang down the ramp to meet the Togorian at its foot, his small weapon flashing dangerously, blocking the warlord's strikes, twisting to knock the shiv out of his hand. But the young Jedi had seriously underestimated his foe; in a moment Rhak'an had used the Force to lift him off his feet and send him hurtlilng into the ship's hull.

Even closed in just as the Togorian seized the boy by the throat and lifted him high into the air.

"Drop your weapon, Jedi!" the panting warlord demanded, whirling to face his enemy, dangling the struggling child at the end of one arm. "Is this skinny cur a pup of your clan? The Jedi are a puny and feeble people indeed. Yield or I will snap its neck!"

Even caught the flare of panic in the boy's eyes, the sudden knowledge that death hovered near, waiting to claim him, the instinctive fear as his vision and hearing began to fade under the pressure constricting his neck. The Jedi master cautiously laid his saber hilt on the ramp at his feet, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Vo! Vo! Dere's no need to kill a _child. _ Put him down. Vat kind of a varrior depends on such dishonorable tactics?"

The Togorian shook with black mirth, not noticing the 'saber's gentle slide up the ramp, between his boots, into the hold of the ship beyond. "The Jedi sorcerer has taught me well," he sneered. "_Prama _itself is a lover of treason, and metes out death without mercy or – _aaaaaaargh!"_

The arm gripping the Skywalker boy parted from its owner's body in a flash of green fire; the Padawan dropped gasping to the hard deck; Rhak'an lurched backward into the hatch framework, clutching at his arm stump; and Obi Wan stumbled a little, pale, half-snarling face highlighted in weird greens by the glow of Even's short 'saber.

In the next instant, the pirate had launched himself at his assailant, his one remaining hand closing hard about the Jedi's windpipe. The 'saber dropped clattering to the decks, then flew into Even Piell's outstretched hand. Anakin Skywalker pushed onto his knees, crying out in renewed horror; and Master Piell soared over his head in a tight somersault, bringing his blade around in a tight arc, neatly carving Rhak'an's head from his shoulders.

They landed in a heap; Obi Wan on the bottom, the Togorian's heavy corpse in the middle, and Even Piell on top. The warlord's severed head rolled to a stop near the overwrought Padawan, flesh and fur stinking as they smoldered and sent up a thin smoke-trail.

Anakin kicked it away with a guttural cry of disgust and hurried forward to help the dwarf Jedi drag the cumbersome body off his master.

"Anakin," Obi Wan groaned. That was _stupid."_

"I'm sorry, master, I'm sorry.!"

Even Piell clipped his saber at his belt, and watched in grim amusement as the Padawan buried his blonde head against his injured mentor's chest. Obi Wan patted the boy's back once or twice, and then let his head drop back, eyes closing in exhaustion.

The descending whine of another ship's drives made itself heard outside. With a shake of his head at the pathetically sobbing Skywalker boy, he hurriedly descended the ramp to greet the newcomers.

* * *

><p>There were far too many voices, and they were all talking about <em>him. <em>As though he weren't present. It was appallingly rude. Obi Wan dragged open his eyes a fraction, aware that someone had managed to drag Anakin off his chest, and that among the murmuring voices was Even Piell's. The dwarfish master was watching him warily, a half-humorous twinkle in his one open eye.

"Dese people are from the Bograsshi medcenter, my boy, and you are going to co-voperate."

Not if he had anything to say about it. The last thing he needed right now – on top of dismembered Togorians, failing stabilizer arrays, illness, injury, and a flagrantly disobedient Padawan – was the aggravation of dealing with _medics. _"Master," he ground out hoarsely. "There's no need –"

"Dat's enough," the dwarfish Jedi interrupted, his face swimming in and out of focus. His scarred eye drooped in a fiendishly obstinate scowl, and his shining scalp reflected the painfully bright lights. "Your Padavan has plenty of defiance for two. Let's see von of you show a little respect for authority, eh?"

Obi Wan closed his eyes, too weary to press his point, breathing deeply through a fresh wave of sickening pain. On the whole, it would be easier to simply pass out again – but the sudden appearance of three other figures behind Master Piell yanked his awareness back to the unpleasant reality of the moment. One of the blurred silhouettes was a spindly medical droid. It leaned over him predatorily, thin arms waving in hungry anticipation.

"Are you experiencing any discomfort?" its soothing vocabulator warbled.

He peered at it sardonically and gestured vaguely with one hand, from head to foot. "This hurts," he grunted.

The droid had no sense of humor whatsoever, of course, and promptly laid into him with a vengeance, poking and prodding and passing bioscanners over him to its cybernetic heart's content. Its assistants were both humanoids – persons of uncertain age and gender, swathed in the sterile sacking of medcenters everywhere, nearly as impersonal as the droid.

He craned his head to one side, trying to keep Even Piell in his line of vision. "Anakin," he said, willing the small master to understand.

"I'll take care of him," Master Piell promised gruffly. "I've dealt vit harder cases. In the meantime, you need to vorry about healing. I vant you in good shape for the Council report for this mission. Ve've got a lot to talk about, hm?"

Even Piell's humor was as two-sided as the rest of him – frowning and smiling at the same time. "Wonderful," Obi Wan muttered. He could hardly wait.

The droid did something or other – without permission – and the world dissolved into a welcome oblivion, into the soft, golden embrace of the Force.


	15. Chapter 15

**Birthright**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

Even Piell folded his arms across his chest and chuckled low in his throat. The Jedi had been given a private cabin aboard the passenger transport heading directly for Coruscant; they had departed from the Bograashi medcenter before dawn local time, and had a lengthy stretch of journey still before them. Anakin Skywalker sat across the small space, looking as tired as a young boy who had spent the last three days worrying himself sick and subsisting on nothing but cheap pre-fab food available in the bland hospital cafeteria might be expected to look. His bright blue eyes were wide open, however, with the hyper-alert brightness of an overtired child. Obi Wan, on the other hand - no doubt exhausted from the strain of shamelessly mind-tricking every doctor and clinician in the medcenter into believing that his recovery was complete and that they "should release him _now," _- had immediately slipped from a light meditative trance into a deep sleep within minutes of boarding. Master Piell snorted. The Temple healers would not prove such easy dupes of his cunning.

"Master Piell?" Apparently the Skywalker lad was in a mood to talk. Even wondered if he ever gave poor Obi Wan any peace.

"Vat is it, my boy?"

"I was wondering….that Togorian who attacked us. He could use the Force."

"Aye. Unpleasant fellow."

"Well, earlier – I mean before everything happened, Master said that if somebody could feel the Force but wasn't trained, then that would be a tragedy. And I can't help but wonder about that pirate. Because …maybe he was a tragedy more than a bad person."

Even nodded his head slowly. So the boy had a keen mind in there, along with all the raw talent. What a handful. "Ve aren't made bad or good by our circumstances. Dat's a matter of personal choice."

"But how could he choose to be good when the whole universe was against him?" the Padawan persisted. "If everything went wrong and he didn't ever get what he deserved, then how could anyone blame him for going bad?"

That was not a question any Temple-raised child would ask – not until one of the masters posed it to them in a senior level philosophy seminar, where it inevitably provoked outraged reactions. "Vo! You feel sorry for that scoundrel, eh?"

The boy shrugged. "I dunno. He tried to kill my master. Mostly I just hate him."

Even's eye narrowed. Skywalker was a volatile mix of the dangerous, the unexpected, and the endearing. He had been among those on the Council who voted against the boy's training in the first place….and so perhaps the Force was telling him something now. He rubbed a coarse hand over his chin, seeking guidance in the matter of an appropriate answer. "Vell. Happiness and contentment are nobody's birthright, Padavan. There's no such thing as the universe being _against_ somevon. That's a state of mind."

"Like revenge."

"Like revenge," he agreed solemnly. "Or forgiveness, for that matter. Going bad – that happens ven a person tinks he has a right to vat is a Force-given gift. Envy. Greed. Those are powerful enemies. And our friend back there knew them both too vell."

The blonde boy finally lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Even leaned back, watching him for a few moments before closing his own eyes. Part of him was glad that the task of rearing this ingenious, mercurial, inscrutable child had fallen to Obi Wan, and not to himself. He had a feeling that were the burden his to bear, the poor boy would end up as a tragedy, despite all the benefit of his experience and patience. It would take a _truly_ great Jedi to keep Skywalker on the right path. The Force had chosen well, even if its ways were mysterious.

* * *

><p>Anakin Skywalker stood up straight and tall inside the turbo lift as it rapidly ascended the Jedi Temple's southern spire. He knew he was in <em>big<em> trouble – getting hauled in front of the Council kind of trouble – but he wouldn't let his trepidation show. Not with Master Obi Wan standing right here next to him, looking just about as serious as Anakin had ever seen him look, at least since they had officially been made teacher and student. The dreaded meeting had been delayed two days after their return to Coruscant because Master had been tied up with the healers. Anakin didn't know whether that was good or bad. Good, perhaps, because he was in no hurry to stand before the intimidating circle of senior Jedi and explain his recent misbehavior; but also bad, because the intervening time had cultivated his seeds of worry into full-blown dread.

"Uh, master?"

Obi Wan looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Anakin noticed that he was discreetly holding the handrail on the lift's side, something he never ever did before. He looked mostly better, though the Force radiating around him wasn't quite as strong and warm as normal, and he had said that he couldn't spar yet for a few days.

"Will I – do I have to go talk to them _alone_?"

"You certainly made your decisions and took action independently, Anakin. I should think you would like to brag about your adventures _alone, _ as well."

However, any lingering traces of illness had done nothing to blunt Master Obi Wan's cutting wit. Anakin flinched. He swallowed. The lift doors opened to admit them into the small waiting room outside the Council chamber proper. Anakin fidgeted, folded and refolded his hands inside his sleeves, tried to imitate Master's calm posture. He stared at the burnished doors ahead of them, his stomach contracting into a hard lump. Oddly enough, this had been the last thing on his mind when he had stowed away aboard Master Piell's ship all those days ago….and now he wondered how in the galaxy he had neglected to imagine the likely consequence of such bold disobedience.

"You would do well to look just a _trifle_ beyond the present moment, Padawan," Obi Wan advised him sourly.

Anakin's mouth hardened into a pout. It wasn't fair that Master could read his thoughts so easily.

The doors opened, and they crossed over the threshold into the light-saturated chamber, its panoramic windows spilling radiance onto the inlaid mosaic floor, the Force so _dense_ here that Anakin felt as though he were floating across the room at his master's heels, coming to a gentle halt in the very center of the space. Twelve pairs of eyes studied the pair of them critically. Anakin moved closer to Obi Wan, as though he might hide in the folds of his long earth-toned cloak.

Master Piell was here, along with Yoda and Mace Windu and all the others. You would never know Master Piell had just spent three days in Anakin's sole company, providing much needed distraction and the occasional word of comfort. Right now his drooping face gave him the appearance of a gundark that had swallowed something particularly unpleasant.

Hands found his arm and steered him forward until he was standing directly in front of his teacher, facing the Council like a firing squad. Obi Wan's hands settled on his shoulders. Would Obi Wan throw him to the wolves like a servant being handed over to the slave-masters for punishment.? He bit his lip to stop its trembling and kept his chin high. The outlines of the Jedi in the room blurred slightly, and his eyes stung.

"My masters," Obi Wan said. "I come before you to take responsibility for my Padawan's actions. His disobedience and rash behavior are entirely my fault."

Anakin's heart stopped. Had he _heard_ right? He almost jumped out of his skin, and tried to turn around so he could get a good look at Obi Wan's face, but his master's hands held him firmly in place.

Even Piell had one foot propped up on the opposite knee. The fingers of his hands were loosely intertwined. "Master Kenobi," he growled. "Your Padavan used a mind trick on a Republic pilot, stowed avay on my ship, and defied the direct order of this Council. Dese are serious breaches of conduct. Are you saying you instructed him to act in this vay?"

Anakin could hear his mentor's soft inhalation. "By my neglect to instruct him otherwise, and perhaps by my example, I have certainly led him astray," Obi Wan said quietly.

"That's –" Anakin began, but Obi Wan's fingers dug fiercely into his shoulders, silencing him. It hurt, though, and the blurred edges of the Council members began to shimmer and shift. He didn't dare blink.

Master Yoda grumbled under his breath and Mace Windu stirred restlessly. There was a murmur of discontent, a fleeting stir of disgruntlement moving around the circle of Jedi.

"It is, of course, the master's fault if an apprentice chooses such a reckless and potentially damaging course of action," Mace Windu said heavily. "At least _formally, _Master Kenobi." The Korun Jedi settled back in his chair, his dark eyes sweeping over Anakin like he was a pile of poodoo and locking onto Obi Wan with a very penetrating, knowing look in their depths.

"I accept the Council's censure, and wish to correct my faults," Obi Wan insisted.

Anakin still couldn't blink. What was his master thinking? He felt very odd – his stomach was twisting horribly. He would much, much rather be in trouble himself than stand here while Obi Wan took all the blame.

Master Yoda snorted in disgust. "Very well," he grunted, his ears tweaking upward in annoyance. "The matter of discipline in Master Piell's hands, we will leave. Speak with him privately you will, Obi Wan."

"Yes, master."

Anakin spared a glance at the dwarfish Jedi, hoping to see some gleam of humor or kindness in his implacable face – but the scowl was imprinted as deeply as ever, and the one open eye gleamed with a strange light, one the boy had no hope of deciphering.

"Ve're going to have a very _long _ talk, Obi Van," the Even Piell promised, in a baritone growl. "Dis von't happen again."

"No, master."

Anakin couldn't see anything at all now, because the whole room had smeared into a wet haze. The burn in his eyes was nearly intolerable. Finally, finally, they were making their bow. He didn't even hear the Council's curt words of dismissal. Obi Wan propelled him back through the doors, through the antechamber, and into the lift. Once safely within its confines, Anakin let the moisture fall on his face, where he could swiftly dash it away.

"Master!" he accused the older Jedi. "You _lied_ to the Council!"

Obi Wan's eyebrows came together in a thunderous line. "Don't add disrespect to your lengthy list of misdemeanors," he warned.

Anakin flushed. "But! But! You said it was all your fault!"

"Formally, Anakin. _Informally, _ my very young and _very_ deluded Padawan, you are still in enormous trouble. With me."

"Oh." Anakin wasn't sure if the renewed flipping sensation in his belly was one of dread or relief. He settled on relief and buried his face in his master's tunics again, at least until the lift doors opened. Then he stepped back hastily and shoved his hands into his sleeves and froze his face into a perfect expression of Jedi calm.

Obi Wan led the way out, and he followed docilely, happy that the galaxy had been restored to some semblance of order. Though he knew he would never quite be the same after this, he also knew that some things were as unchanging and reliable as time itself.

That was some consolation.

* * *

><p>The epic <em>ker-tarwei<em> composed in honor of the notorious warlord Gherru Rhak'an ended in several different ways, depending on the particular bard who recited them. The circumstances of the great warrior's death were shrouded in mystery, and so the imagination of his vassals and his envious rivals filled in the details. According to one account, the mightiest of Togorians ever to live disappeared into the _prama_ itself, leaving behind no corpse, a testament to a power beyond imagining. In another version of the tale, he was assaulted by one hundred Jedi warriors who ambushed him and set upon him in traitorous fashion, managing at last to fell him with many grievous blows after he had decimated their ranks. In yet another popular recounting of his life, Rhak'an still wandered as a ghost on the outer fringes of the Rims, plundering and raiding to his heart's content. And in a more historically accurate version propagated by his immediate successor, he went to hunt down his escaped Jedi prisoner and met a bitter and dishonored death upon the sorcerer's blade. There was no way to know which if any of these tales was true; and it mattered little, for those who rose to power in the aftermath of his tyrannical reign knew little of _prama_ and cared nothing for its intracacies. For them, his death was a mere curiosity, and a convenient beginning to their own story. And, in the end, this was perhaps the best and the truest conclusion there could be. After all, the ways of _prama _ were, indeed, mysterious.

FINIS


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